AND IF I AM TO FORGIVE YOU
Who am I
if I am not
the aftertaste
of abuse?
The offspring
of your temper
and your fat
white pills?
I don’t know
what will be left
of me if I dump
the curdled milk
down the drain.
Sometimes I just
like to look at it,
open the fridge
and let the cold
sharpen my skin.
Be someone
who bought
milk once.
A poet told me
to write about
you. Write it
out, honey.
As if you were
a fever or
a horse to break.
As if you don’t
already show up,
uninvited,
unbeckoned,
into every poem.
Your hand
guides my wrist
as I write this,
even now.