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.