Poetry From The Back Of My Hand

And its all over the bed; my hair,
scissors in hand I cut away at the sides again.
I am a soldier with a crew cut
yet still I slice away.

Tomorrow will bring more bad news,
possibly a funeral- mine.

The hairs’ lilac shadow looms over my face
like a ripe moon over the sea.
Outside birds sing guiding my hand.
When meat rains I will stop,

because it will be my meat that rains
and it will rain all morning,

splattering as if stars over the
cracked cement;
a mirror to the Gods.
The knife comes after

when the hair has gone-
the blades coming through the walls

eating away from the other side,
the serrated edges cutting me
to ease my pain,
soldiering forward in amorous arms.