Angry with my poem because
it played the hunchback,
pretended to be mute
and walked sideways like
a crab, I cursed it as we
fought in the desert
where it had brought me.
We scratched, bit, kicked
and hit. It spat into
my face, and I seized it
by the throat with a
wild shout and squeezed,
murder in heart and hand.
It leapt into my mouth
and refused to come out.
Bleeding, I fell weary on
the sand and wept with loss.
Then my poem emerged into
the day, put a fine-formed
foot upon my chest and leaned
as perfect as a desert rose
to kiss me where I lay.
