Good evening to you
who would have me murdered,
stealing into the house that night
to hold a knife to my neck.
My grief is wintering on
the first blood oranges,
the shagreen sliced diagonal, adrip.
You might have filleted me just so
all those seasons ago.
The afternoon’s awful matinee
yielded some fruit
when the actress said,
“I bet you write love poems
to your abusers.”
Sleep tight, my intruder.
I’ll take the flesh I have left
and eat my fill.
