It was you who thrust the poem
into the corner and continued to kick
while it cowered - just to see
what happens when it bleeds.
Is that ink seeping across the floor?
Blind, your coarse hands search
its limbs and skin, feeling
each mole, every wrinkle
like Braille - searching.
Still clueless, you dissect
the stomach -
its lines spill out
like entrails it holds
in the bowl of its hands.
The letters run through fingers like DNA...
You continue to probe; what do they mean?
What do they mean?
You wrench open the mouth, waggle
its tongue with you finger and thumb.
But no - the poem remains dumb,
with its bald, faceless head that seems to change,
depending on your perspective.
It turns to your wife and she staggers to her knees,
screaming of her lost son.
It eyes up your brother and he cries
of his own lonely heart...
then a shriek.
The poet stands in the doorway,
cradling her poem's last word
like a carmine red placenta.
She falls at your feet and begs you, please,
to spare her child.