I’m missing you.
Hearing the sound of your breath
I wander fruitlessly
Amid the cold stones.At the lunch hour I eat peanut butter,
Four spoonfuls when I meant to have two.
Your fault, I’m sure, men exceeding their limit
At the mention of your name.What is it about a sheep bound for slaughter
That excites your blood? What is this frequently
Visited place you have reserved for sharpened knives?
What is this slow death you torment me with?“Anna, I am too old,” I say,
And you laugh. I see the red stains
On your sharpened teeth
And cannot bring myself to care.February 2004