Pickaxe
There is that in me that delves in
pointless suffering–as in today
when I wake to an ache
in the small of my back.
The pickaxe–
yes, it had a point of sorts–a
sharpish wedge
of heavy edge–but did I really need
to bang it upon the ground
so many times?
The goal: to loosen earth
but I was so unsystematic
as to not give birth to anything but…
loose earth (not even one soft bed
ready for seed).
So it is
when I pick on you–
pick fights–pick piques–
Afterwards, the small
of my heart hurts, and I ache
to take all back.
Luckily for me, in our soft bed,
you know that.
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The above is my draft poem for the 17th day of National Poetry Month!
The above is my draft poem for the 17th day of National Poetry Month!
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