I will always be the bitch
who slams the door on
her own fingers
just to keep it closed.
They will grow back.
I will always have a knife for
a first rib; and I have bled many times
when I’ve pulled out the narrow steel,
the sharp bone stone edge – break it
from manubrium, pull it through
the muscles of my chest.
I will grow another.
I will always give away
my heart; here, take it. This one is yours:
It’s a fine year, harvested well,
the 2015 is the best one yet, a rich body and
beautiful textures – a little young, yes
but a fine year (avoid the 2013 if you can).
And I will always
regrow my witch heart,
my lungs will bloom again,
but until then:
I walk with a hollow chest,
a palm with no fingers,
and a knife in my hand.