memoir without preface

Intent, smitten with subterfuge,
with misdirection — houdini-pawed
and bound to escape from a locked
box plunged in a harbor. Wait now.
All will be revealed. In its time.
After the horror and the what ifs
that garble the mind, stun the breath
and rattle the ribcage. Stand there
in the rain. Take a belt to the back.
All this has been prescribed.
Some chains will loose.
The keys are under the tongue,
in the cold wet gaps
between the lines,
between one hard lash
and another.

Image: Daniel von Appen on Unsplash

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