The cardigan had attempted to
Strangle me. Fingertips
Warm and vile. Fingertips down
My throat, expensive elegant trail of a
Fountain pen. It needs to make clear:
There is no heart
No weakness here. Woven
Between threads, cold and
Empty — its intent,
Transparent through the net,
Some overweight tuna, gills
Gulping to breathe, rigid to death
— today’s catch.
Where does this strength come from?
There is purpose in this
Clasp, not the tangle of nylon
And crystalised scales
But the turning of a bolt-
And-nut, twisting the wires of flaccid
Dumb wool. Let me live:
Mandatory grovelling. Still
It cares for nothing and reason
(Without me you will go straight to
Donations) is but a child’s
Blunt scissors. Cold licked my finger
And, dripping in saliva
They freeze.
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