And although I am a poet, I am not the bullet
I will not heat-seak the soft points
I am not the coroner who will graze her hand
Over naked knees.Who will swish her fingers
In the mouth. Who will flip the body over, her eye a hook
Fishing for government-issued lead.
I am not the sidewalk, which is unsurprised
As another cheek scrapes harsh against it.
Although I too enjoy soft palms on me;
Enjoy when he rests on my body with a hard breath;
I have clasped this man inside me and released him again and again
Listening to him die thousands of little deaths.
What is a good metaphor for a woman who loves in a time like this?
I am no scalpel or high thread sheet count. Not a gavel, or hand painted teacup.
I am neither. Nor romance by street lamp nor candelight;
My hands are not an iron, but look, they’re hot, look
How I place them in love on his skin
And still be able to unwrinkle his spine.
