I was never intentioned to live this way
as you were never intentioned to reprise
the false echo of thankfulness, no less
wrought than conceived by a phantom
limb or the willingness of some birds
to lay under the pretense of death, in hand
until released from a chokehold. What say?
How many nights, in the hard sweats
of a name have I stood over you, plum
to plum and whispered a long vague
melody that, though modest in vogue,
held all songs as if incarnadine. Meat
is the salve of fury and if some furies
were to pervade this room as some
hot plume from a grate, then I would
know how savage and propane this
love to be, this love that is, cold,
starchy, fake as the portion of grace
presumed upon a dinner plate.
Image: Jason Blackeye on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 