the medicine

won't let me cry

i feel nothing

until the scraping

on my hand draws 

blood

(i stare until it stops)

the hot kettle 

makes the hiss

of a burn

but i want only

for it to burn hotter 

and deeper

longer even

it's  never long enough

i cough under the sneeze-shield

at the salad bar

and throw caution to the wind

when i grab an unsuspecting

door knob or gate handle

that cold metal and all it harbors

as danger is what feels good on

my skin

had a man once

that liked me

this way

but it got old to him

too frustrating he said

i was "whack" is the way he put it

i slapped that bastard so hard

he couldn't breathe. he ordered me 

out but i'd already left him i decided

his little pissant outlook angered me

often.

i cut his plants into little bits

after i said goodbye. i waited for him

to go to work and i carved up those beloved

bromeliad pups into little origamis. wonder 

what he thought on his return. i made my way to 

the trestle and that song

my mom used to play me 

when i was a child

kept swirling

caliope-like in my head on the way down,

"...billy joe mcalister jumped

off the talihatchee bridge."

(c) jim hill (12-30-09)