Chicken Little

So I lift your dress
and kneel before your bruises—
each a corsage; plural,

formal as a marriage—
thinking, this is how the story
stiffed you. Acorn, my arse.

It’s my job to listen to the whole shebang:
the who did which to whom
with what, and how the sky itself

was gunning for you. Most of all
I want to hear how everything
seemed lost—how hard it hurt,

how long, and where, precisely.
Incidentally, you’re more than
averagely beautiful. I do believe you.

You must name it, sweetie. It is
only pain. Which isn’t a punch-line
in the therapeutic sense, but then

we’re archetypes, not Notting Hill
neurotics. And besides, I mean to crack
your pretty neck. I do the fox. It’s nature.

Copyright © 2008 Tiffany Atkinson All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission