Alchemisland

Arguing with yourself

Inhabiting your foe’s skin to scathe yourself

Then recarapacing to your own flesh cell

Just to be reenraged afresh

I’ll scrap anyone

Waiting for something, anything, to come into range, half a finger

An ankle

A sniper’s patience, an Olympian’s angle

The boltcutter-divided anklet hanging

Off my leg, a child clasping the father he’s seeing for the last time

Begging not be abandoned, as if you can change a mind.