They cut a lump from me
– a bully, too big for its boots
they said, but harmless –
and then pulled the wound’s edges in like purse strings,
closed its dusky mouth to silence it,
but still it speaks – even faded,
this scar will always tell a story.
I’m So Sorry
Three small words of confirmation,
words with the recoil of tensioned wire.
A report as they sever the air.
That’s him there, still as this pool of silence we founder in.
Each second seems taut, long and strung between here
and life is re-written in the beat of a heart,
in the space without his,
this moment truer than wire breaking’s song.