Garden shears in hand,
a gaping silver mouth. Ready.
We’re connected by glistening wires
every body part, scalp to heels,
linked and secured
and pulling at our skin
as you
leave.
Try.
This weapon
Cradled between my sad
palms can slice
the cables between us,
the metal tarnishing as your
s i l e n c e tells me
to let go. To cut.
I don’t want to.
I love you so simply and so deeply
and these cables
are all I have.
Should I gnash my shears
like malignant teeth?
Set you free?
Set my mind’s picture of you aflame, some
Viking funeral?
God for once minds his
own damn business
silent as you are,
watching a gardener
water her dead plants
desperately,
clinging to old wires.
I am
armed but clueless and
unwaveringly sad.
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