I covered my heart, but the swords swung higher,

going cool and easy into my ears.

I should feel silly for the miscalculation,

but they’d slide through my fingers if I tried to block them.

---

In the quiet cone of the kitchen light,

when there’s nothing left but a spotted

banana, a spatula, a phonebook,

I’ll bang my forehead on the formica and beg

for grace in this reel of humility that will

not, and should not, subside.

---

I deserve my hauntings. You do.

It’s a shame you’re not here to watch me bang,

though I think one sword, one killing stroke, sufficient.

---

Somewhere in Santa Monica you’ll have your gin

at the office party, your children

in your wallet, and your plastic Santa in the yard

to affirm your decisions—

your cone of light, which gilds rather than whispers

how you stunned them

and destroyed them,

when all you wanted was their admiration.