My Dead Hands Lover, I'm Leaving You
Your hands are nothing like the rest of you; their grey skin autumn cold, dead-alive beneath the surface. They gave me hope for a better you. The problem is there are no ants spiders maggots in your mouth nothing to share your meals but a serpentine muscle that feeds you alone so you think only with your teeth grind everything down to nothing and believe that in the end a handful of bones and a perfect jaw will be all you leave behind. You see, I love how in the trenches of your muscles crawl a thousand feet how in the marrow of your fingers breed so many lives but when you shot that robin left it hanging on the porch just to see it rot and laughed when I spoke of chicks growing hungry I saw then how those hands will never feed other mouths.
September 24th, 2012