If you’d like to use me, use
a line. Your mother’s slumped against
the porch, the backyard cur unfenced
and viral. In the shoes
of countless cops, you’ve seen her face
moan up at you, slack-eyed. Disgrace
will do. Tell me how I refract
your ire like volcanic rock.
Say I’m a combination lock,
weighty and exact,
toughest to turn precisely where
it turns. You’re almost there.
©
