Ku


The image of your wife
bloating on the sofa
like a phosphorescent worm
in the television's glow
pushes your mind to consider,
like a tongue tenderly probing a cavity
to reaffirm the persistence of pain,
where it all began
and your own memory winces from you.
You bring her milk and cookies
and sometimes you beat her,
the stench of decay rising in a noxious mist
from the tapestry of your life.
The judgment: some thing are true
and some are rot,
not all wormy things turn into butterflies
or even moths,
there is no honor among thieves and
you stole from your best friend
what he would have freely shared and
the spoils of that have turned to ruin you.

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