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“I hurt. I keep that scream in and at what pain.
at what repeal of salvage and eclipse.
army unhonored, meriting the gold,
I  have sewn my guns inside my lips.”
–gwendolyn brooks, Riders to the Blood-red Wrath

you can shake your fist at any
foaming coast but her
break remains unscathed,
waves unmoved by anything
but tide, but
lunacy like you and.

you are barefoot:
some pedestrian gesture of
worship. bare faced,
palms up in moving
shrine. dressed in silver
locket and white.
perched on toes,
avoiding the shells and
ghost crabs that litter the beach
at gloaming.
you’re wild and roaming
the line seeking to slice
yourself, your guilt,
your insisting, twisted wrists.
steal the scissors from his girlfriend’s
pocket.
                    what’s it like to be a hypnotist?

take a seat.
notice your veins rock,
glisten with munition.
life’s a seething blade
and you wear yours deep
in your lungs.
hum for a bit and then
write it on the page.
have them sing it back
with vexation.
watch your toes curl in the sand
before you start wading.
have them say it out loud and
curse themselves.
you are seeking
redress. you are
seeking long due
turn of fate.
you are seeking
retribution:
the sudden wreck
that laid you.