by Shane Neilson
That fight: bless the new resolutions, bless the blasted,
bless the hurt between us, bless the new flecking scab,
bless the source I return to, again and again. I do: ask why,
ringing in, rousted and fleeing. What was my side again?
Take the promise and let it light the low-wattage sky.
It’s a good thing there’s no knives, you said. I’d stab
you in the back just to make you remember where I stand.
All the forgotten, all the household infamy, all the cold pain
and phantom wounds, all the honest hate and misattributed love
that makes me say, this day, I’d cut you too, make a stain
that won’t go away, but the truth is that we mark each other
like we mark the calendar.
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