My poem weeps, is up all night
slicing its wrists.
It wakes up stumbling, head aching,
trying to make silent coffee
at three in the afternoon.
Chain-smoking
Cowboy Killers,
burning perfect circles and
carving triangles into its calf,
refusing to speak.
It breaks its own silence
when it sprints down the aisle
to pray to the porcelain god.
Yet the worst thing my poem
does is give me silence.
It will make other laugh,
even cringe at violence, but
when I look down at it,
it always is looking down at me.
A glass face.
My poem insults me.
I thought I raised it better.
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