If I did it
I’d do you first
sparing the next one
the note would read
“imagination is a maladaptation”
fingernails in the bone ash
buried half of you
the women shudder
and move on
“let go”
whips of memory and attention
molar sharp but twisted neck
a drug mimics and muffles
surrendering
“deal with the harm”
If love was believable
it wouldn’t need so much evidence
the women sing
“I do pretty well,
til after sundown”