Morning birds coax the raised words carved into my palm.
But carved is too gentle—
they were hacked,
the way an angry butcher cleaves a spoiled pig in place of his darling wife.
PRAISE HIM.
Praise who?
PRAISE HIM.
I will.
I do.
Every hour, on the hour:
PRAISE HIM.
Crimson blood drips,
yet it runs as slowly as it can,
for I still must
PRAISE HIM.
To resist is a sin.
To stop would be unforgivable.
So every hour, on the hour,
I must
PRAISE HIM.