The small shall become great, the crooked become great, and though blind, I shall see.
At this very moment, what I’m avoiding most of all
is laying a curse on you.
I’ve thought about it, a lot, and really,
it’s far too much trouble
for far too little reward. So I sit here
avoiding carving your name with my fingernail
into a sheet of soft lead, then melting it
over a fire. On no account
will I drip wax into water and see
which of the resultant
lumps looks most like your face, then
drive pins into the places
where your eyes should be. Neither will I bury
your cat alive in a cemetery at midnight,
or weave your hair into a nest for birds
to fuck and shit in. None of that.
The worst part of my own forbearance is how you
frankly don’t even seem to notice how much effort
it takes for me to avoid making
my thoughts real, killing you long-distance,
sending black words down into your blood to bloom
like microbes. Nevertheless, I refuse
to spit into your food, to lick your spoons,
to show my vagina in your shaving mirror, in hopes
that its reflection will strike you blind. To take
photos of you while you sleep, then burn them.
You can’t make me, no matter what you do,