Playing with Fire

They say to play
with matches
is foolish.

You horse-whipped
me as if this race
could be won by


raised your arms
in victory before
my muscles stopped


When I asked-
could you love me?
your hand came down,

an animal bone
and struck me.

You take
the things
you love

and hurt them.

I am not surprised-
the wounded feed on
the wounded while

the burning play
with fire.

1 comment:

RachelW said...

This poem makes me want to hear its story.