Once I told you not to explicate my life
like this.   Don't tear me apart as when
the grass grows too high.  You mow me
and I am cut to my bleeding bones.

I receive your blades into my sanctuary
of flesh.  A little more of me to spill out
and I run.  There is a bottle of gin
waiting.  I forgot it very well when
you left me.

I don't want to be your friend.  I don't
want to wash in the same cracked sink
as you do.  Wear me on your last

trouser pocket, the blue one from
the New York tailor we could not
afford.  The abortion remains
too fragile to be spoken of.

The crackling of the shutting
door is all I can hear.    


Caroline Shank
January 12, 2015