My mind is chained to you.
You move and I am yanked off center,
staggering. Each of your words
is caged in my chest
nibbling and gnawing there,
sawing incisors
slicing raw nerve-screens.
I can’t see the sky
because
you’re interposed.
You weep
through my eyes.
Conjoined. Conflated.
I live in the conjunctive.
I breathe without pain
when you allow me to –
when some vortex in the field
of your vast gravity slacks,
and I’m permitted
a second’s respite.
Your phrases, your
ideas, pepper my gut
where they burn
small hemorrhagic holes.
Some sparks and spices
sting still from last year…
Unaware, utterly unaware
Of your god-power, you
toss off thoughts
and my lowest
most vulnerable membranes
pay the price.
I am your target
bristling with your arrows
which
you fail to see you’re shooting.
The legs of a target can’t
run away.
I am St Sebastian, bound pierced and
writhing, awash with blood.
All I can do is watch your eyes
for a clue to your next shot.
But (though every word-arrow
finds a pain node)
you’re not aiming.
***