They whittle us down
until we are nothing more than a whisper;
a croak.

My flesh is balsa wood—
“pliable,” said the boss.
“Easy,” said the judge.

Men are born with knives.

Behind closed doors,
they carve.

Their chests swell as they set satisfied knives
on solid walnut desks, glossy with
the oil of money,
spit of secretaries,
greasy fingers.

No one
musters the courage
to knock.