Words by Brenda Warren
Your cape curls at the edges,
Whipping froth from a lingering haze.
I fillet you from grin to scrotum,
Exchanging one cave for another.
Our symmetry is incompatible
I retract my claws, the strain of blood
Traipsing over my favorite blouse.
If only a sculptor then perhaps
My love wouldn’t be so deranged.
*
The chains sustaining my ancestry
Dig in another quarter inch
Cutting off all access routes.
The circus is still in progress
Inflamed clowns feign
Behind a barbwire sty.
We are the people our wounds dictate
And nothing offends more than comparison.
mindlovemisery 