Blood caked. Split knuckled after brass knuckles

left a wallop scar, after mama cat’s

 

back claws dug scallop-sized grooves, red jackal’s

love, read across each palm. Your democrat’s

 

lost cause is worth fighting for. Whitman’s, “Great

Commonwealth.” The rage I find in Suffrage.

 

Left hand path’s wrath at all who live to hate

sisters while the boom box sings, “O bondage

 

up yours.” Under split skin bone shines. I’ve sewn

my flesh up before. I can manage pain

 

but not their hate; there are some nerves even

smack can’t dull. My love calls herself a crone,

 

a witch. I’m her consort; son with bloodstain

knuckles. Come. Cum in rage. Rage an omen.

][][

note:

“Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” is the title of a song by X-Ray Spex.