This is heartbreak
I’ve squandered this vow mindlessly scratching
a sterile sore. The portents were plain,
nothing would come of it.
Still I dream. Last night, seven dead mice
strewn across my coverlet, harking back
to an arresting image—Bodily Harm—
rat emerging from vagina. I do not
make these things up, I’m too weary.
There is not enough salve
on the continent to swathe this busted body,
nor breath to resuscitate this heartbreak.