Sculptor

Why don’t you write poetry about me anymore.
His fist settles comfortably at the pit of my stomach
fingers curl around my esophagus
like one would grab a baseball bat.
Am I not inspiring enough?
He sculpts his sentence
until they sound like bad Dickinson
pausing for me to record chiseled words.
Why don’t you write about this.
He peel papayas with oversized knives
and leaves milk to warm in the honeyed sun
throat tightens, drinking straight from the gallon
his jawbone reflected in the steel blade.

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