fraise sauvage
i was reared restless and mutated
to savage as clover patch strawberries
in the backyard—my parents lied
and said they were poisonous. i could
never be poisonous, never crooked-cored,
but once i turned venomous, there was
no halting it. i used venom like rationed
water: only when desperate. only when
he dug his barbs into flesh as yet
unblemished. only when he spoke
for the sole purpose of drawing blood,
gashes so deep they blurred
my vision and sent my fist colliding
with his temple, with the cartilage of an ear
that would ring for five minutes following
the onslaught of emotional damage.
it’s here i look back and realize this
will never go away. there will always be
a pipe wrench clamped around my guts.
when it tightens, i will always dole out
lashes with my tongue and maybe
my half-clenched fists. my first instinct
will always be ruinous. and it will be years
from this particular cataclysm before
i have words for this segment of my wiring—
the way the doctor says borderline implies
a transience, but i am rooted here. i am
the cracks in the soil. i am the coming flood.