A poem I wrote

I reached into my self and grabbed / A little piece of virtue / A question in a statement / “why’d I ever want to hurt you?” /

Then I asked / If I’d your permission / To place something on your chest / A pink, amorphous shining thing / Stuck to fingers and to breast / It glowed when spoken to / Like you or I, / Or eulogized ones in death /

And as I stabbed closer to your center mass / There it emerged again / Much like when we began / But now aggressive, real and hungry / When this deed is done, If you promise to return, / We can make this pink amorphous shiny thing, a very special beast. /

And on that day / Our treaty signed / To you and I; to the cradle / Of our future, past and present / Splayed as a war game / On our cluttered coffee table /

Oh, pink amorphous shiny thing / How I have cried for you / Sick, grew your mother and I / She bound your lungs / As I withdrew /

And when the tower fell at last / Your mother stood / Across the ruins / And I picked up what I could of you /

With my breast away from ugly sight / “Rest well” / Was all that I could speak that night /