Killing Our Gods

No more hands twisting, grasping, or setting 

gently, nor slumped peonies as metaphors 

for drunkenness. No brothers dying high 

watching Law and Order and no more 

mothers, either. No more mothers shuffling 

over stone, asking if I want 

to touch what is killing them. No more deadly

tumors, no, no squamous cell 

carcinoma, no beautiful 

sick-sounding words. 

No more sand swallowing ankles, no ocean’s 

gurgling foam and froth, no moon 

spitting silver everywhere. No reflection walking 

towards you as you walk towards it

nor walking away when it’s had

enough. No, I don’t know. 

No, I’m not ready to be loved again.