Connie Voisine: Sensualist


Just like Saint Julian, you met a handsome stag in the forest
who told that you would kill someone, that you might wake

to bloodied hands, mud on your shoes, unsure 
of what has been dream and what is memory.

A whole family gone—off a cliff, shot in the kitchen,
children, etc. The mother is often the one who’s

found dragging her dying self towards a phone, a knife,
a son who may be the shooter, or it was another 

troubled one. A lover caught in a bed, a neighbor stumbled 
into wreckage, attempted heroism, foster children

too, dead. S/he/they would not have done this horrible 
thing and I would like to think I would not have

become the time bomb we often discuss and ticking.
Am I certain it was not me who was volatile or

who created wrong details to protect someone, me?
Morning after pill. Laundry, bleach. I see your spill 

of blood, a shattered window and wonder how and why 
you might do some terrible thing like this. Problem is 

I can imagine doing most things fully, enough for guilt.

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