These hands are not his hands,
they are my hands.
But sometimes in my mind they are his hands,
and other times they are not hands at all,
they are claws.
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These are the secrets I cannot keep:
How she bends over the world to plant a goodnight’s kiss,
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There was once something in the woods,
Ever so wild and free,
A being no one dared to name,
But they all craved to see.
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10:32—How are you?
I want to tell him I’m watching
a murder—the boy in the carpark blowing out the brains
of a dandelion clock,
my hand a foam finger in the window.
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One step forward two steps back Three bodies lay bloody
on an open track One had a gram, one had a knife
Reason enough to take a life…
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