Saturday, September 18, 2010

that must be why my hand pulls away

after norman mailer
drunkenly stabbed his wife
w/a pen knife
at a party

he told people, "i just wanted
to nick her
in the heart"

she lived & forgave him

i wonder how many nicks
are on my heart

its surface must look like
a butcher's old cutting board

or maybe the nicks grow in reverse now
instead of slices there are the tiny tips
of each blade that entered

my heart must look like a red pineapple fist
covered in steel thorns

maybe that's why when i am alone
& i attempt to massage that sad thing in my chest
my hand pulls away

an untouchable little bomb
a thorny hand grenade
not quite ready to give birth
to a room of shrapnel
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.