It’s been fifteen years and still with ease,
I could tear your face with my knife-sharp
nails. Still, I could make a public scene,
yanking your hair out painfully, and holding
your face under water, drowning you in
a bath of my rage and pain; or be glad to
hear of your demise, knowing you condemned
to roll with rocks and stones and trees, lifeless
in the grave. But for all my unkind thoughts,
I’d be content if you’d relent, consenting
to appear less often—in that troubled sphere
where once adhered—a peaceful garden
growing,—with rabbits, violets, and woodland
deer bending unfettered necks to graze.
TO MARGARET
