You’ve got a hard rule
that the gruesome is a counterpoise
to the sentimental. I used to say
that’s how sadists are—
getting teary over Italian operas,
and then afterwards,
strangling someone small.
I look out your window
to see fresh pavement markings
painted over roadkill fox. The triangle
means Yield. I want to say—
give me all your money.
Let me purchase a new body.
Instead, I go to the kitchen,
but the fridge light is broken
and inside stays dark.
You say, like chalk
on a blackboard,
but you mean like fingernails.
In this way, you love
reversals. When I was younger,
it felt like a miracle,
how you loved me.
Now I feel I am in the radius
of the Sphinx. You squat
on my city walls, riddling.
Your claws crumble the cement
as if it were angel cake.
Has this been illuminating?
TAMARA BARNETT-HERRIN was born in London and lives in Los Angeles. Her work has been published in Fence and Poetry Ireland Review.
