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.