her words fell on the paper

like raccoon garbage driven out onto the streets

separate now from its insecure

and overflown receptacle

there's a kind of freedom there

in the fetid way that a spoiled rag

festers on top of a bitumen strip

folded in on itself like a dead origami rose,

sat with satin stains of beige and cherry swirls,

no longer conscribed to the over-arching narrative

no longer eligible for reprieve

free: to be taken;

out of context

free to be; a reminder

that somebody needs to clean up

this mess

in any utopia, there is

a farm hand who would rather be a dreadnought

a prison guard who enjoys the night shift

a grave digger who works weekends

tell me

do you know when enough is a lot?

do you know how a bleeding heart clots?

see, the sad truth is

every writer needs an editor

someone who can scrub cat piss

out of a blanket statement

someone who knows better

than to say what

they mean

a poem is an olive

that must be soaked in a bath of lye

to be cured from the natural

taste of its creator