I never liked being bent.
My backbone is an anarchy, a traced
Stiff line that resists breaking.
The pivoted woodblocks, sorely wrung,
Are unlocked and can dismantle
In any minute.
The lips of each click,
Of each propped eyeball speak
Resistance (and breaking).
This is reminiscent
Of a scab that vanquished
The flesh-gnawing wound,
A wound that had festered
On my arm for a week—the hooked
Teeth of dry blood, the black gleam of
Healing, or another
Fresh blood beneath that awaits premature
Peeling. But when can one say
That breaking is the remedy?
The thick pored rind of limes
Molds into my eyes—
The dull drudgers scamper inside
My mind and want me dead,
Unmoving and bent,
All my scabs flaked clean
Like the wooden pink
Virgin in her glass menagerie, meek
Of stinging sounds of a penny.
But she never bends in gratitude; she
Is too holy for that, too dead for that.