WE, WHO SLEEP WITH A KNIFE

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A new life

requires a death;

otherwise, it is

just a shuffling

of the same dull deck,

fifty-two cards we inherited

from our fathers,

adhering to rules relayed

before we were born.

 

Here we are now,

all that detritus

drifting into our eyes;

smoldering ashes,

combed back with a stare.

 

Anger should be respected,

even when it isn’t shared.

Michelle Dowd