Iron

And although I am a poet, I am not the bullet; I will not heat-search the soft points. I am not the coroner who will graze her hand over naked knees. Who will swish her fingers in the mouth. Who will flip the body over, her eye a hook fishing for government-issued lead. I am not the sidewalk, which is unsurprised as another cheek scrapes harsh against it. Although I too enjoy soft palms on me; enjoy when he rests on my body with a hard breath; I have clasped this man inside me and released him again and again, listening to him die thousands of little deaths. What is a good metaphor for a woman who loves in a time like this? I am no scalpel or high thread count sheet. Not a gavel, or hand-painted teacup. I am neither           nor romanced by the streetlamp nor candlelight; my hands are not an iron, but look, they’re hot, look how I place them           in love           on his skin and am still able to unwrinkle his spine.