A day later,
playing music, and your words
through and through, between my ears
and lungs.
The violinist’s hand moves like a bee’s wing
then suddenly like a sneaking python
and the dirge circles my running heart
in rising movements like smoke
until I can’t breathe
and I’m chocking
with tears.
It plays soundtrack to my fears.
I dread what these memories
will do to me; to my heart;
if they lodge a little longer.
But that’s what words do-
they come in through the ear,
make a bloodbath then can’t find their way out
and so they slit away
leaving signatures everywhere
after they’re long dead.
Today only a little pulling of the heart is enough
to retune to pain.
Only a little pulling
returns the pain.
Maybe it’s because it’s only yesterday
since you assaulted me
and left me for dead
with your whip of a tongue,
that they cut like a hundred butchers right now.
It only takes a little playing, now,
of random adagios and all
the flies on the lucky dead wall
will watch the dams of Rome give way
as I cry
like child
when I don’t even love
you.