Someone asked,
“Could you write me
a book of poetry by hand?”
I gave it to them
but I bound it with the ropes
I use to bind me:
My torso hangs akimbo
like a masterpiece
in butchered pieces—
suspended—
some consider it
perverted; others
a knotted ballet—
I consider it a job,
binding my heart up
like any
self-proclaimed artist
or deviant
would.
You should
know by now
that I am bound
hard and fast, too,
within a proverbial Chinese
finger trap:
Push closer!
You yell,
but I tug
to pull away
like every interdiction
against our being
Here I am
hangin’ around
with-
in
the
rope
you
use
to
b
i
n
d
m
e
—yank!—
