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I live in fear of invisible tripwires
being laid in my home–
hidden stretched between doorways,
in the darkness of long hallways,
coming around corners
in the middle of the night,
waiting to catch me right there, in the flesh
of my ankles, send me tumbling
downwise, towards the hard edges
and towards the flight of stairs.
I feel that they could even have been set there
just a moment ago,
when my attention was diverted for
just a moment,
just a moment,
and I would have no way of knowing
until I’m tasting blood in my mouth,
and my bones have been cracked
and split open, and I’m lying
on the sudden floor, bruises pooling–
and even then, I’ll reach back,
I’ll pass my hand through the place where I’ll know
the trap had just been, just a moment ago,
and there will be nothing there, just empty air,
the wire vanished, its purpose served.
A cycle:
The older man hits the younger man
on the head with a rolling pin
and the younger man falls back
in a daze–
and the older man throws water
on the younger man
and he is revived, he sits up
like a man awaking from a frightful dream,
and the older man hits him
on the head with a rolling pin
and he falls back
in a daze–
and the older man throws water on him
and they both are down in the gutter
and their clothes are as dirty as rags;
their war has been raging so long now
that they’re both too exhausted to stand.
Twitter: @toomuchistrue
