by Kirby Wright
These days I find blood
In strange places,
Drops falling like rain
Staining the carpet.
I remember the razor dragging,
Unzipping me from myself.
Why do I plant
The arms and legs of dolls
In the earth
Of the redwood planter?
It amuses you.
I know.
Am I planting myself?
My only pictures of you
Are on the flaps of books.
You search for women
To belong to
When you know, deep down,
You belong to me
Or at least the part of me
That makes you hunger
For more bloody morsels.