You are not
the cinder block of aggression
that kept the bathtub
from touching the
floor.  You are the ears
below the floor, you
are crouching
beneath the cottonwoods, slowly
molding into the support
system of a 1950’s kitchen
that a man’s hands learned
to bleed between.  You are his
father’s sweat when he
delivered him from his mother, you are the fists
he used to pound his reasons, a woman’s
tears seeping and melting in resin.  She
lay barefoot before you, completely naked
sliding her hands between her knees, wondering
why the bare spot is so empty when
there are bruises on her eyelids, on her
face, in her mouth; Why there are no hand prints where there
should be.  The prettiest parts of us
become compromised with badges, badges
we tell ourselves make up for the battlefield
we were too young to witness, she
wishes she would have learned ballet
when she was young, when her hair
still held shape.
When she slit her leg
and bled crimson you caught her.
You watched the human race
become disgusting with
desire. You
are composed of the same wood
they used to keep a cradle lit. The
wood of a casket, the
same wood of a white cross
in a room of crying soldiers
who finally realized
they served no benefit.