Arms
I have stood at the brink of murder
several times now.
It is the dog that comes closest,
for that would be a transgression line
more easily rubbed out.
If I start to hit I do not stop, beserker:
one brother wears my story still
beaten carelessly into now-stretched skin.
Whatever magic ember lay in Him
He passed to me by some genetic fate
so that, if the wind is in the wrong direction
(North or South, depends on me)
and the breeze, zephyr, gale not just right
(for me), I do not smoulder, do not flare
I erupt, and it is oh,
so sudden.
Of course, at puberty, the world expects
so I reined in, reined in,
and learned instead to cut myself
when that East of Java moment comes.
It is not pretty, but it does a job.
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