on deaf ears

you love too many things
they'll say
yes, too much love. trim them
to fit in 

with the picture fence
we've framed you with

whack at the weeds
they'll say
run that gasoline knife 

over the blades
so you can rest on a desk
as a manicure to be proud of

with bumper sticker breath
they'll say
airbrushed emotion is the answer
if left to lie
in tombs with men
who've written thick and numbered tomes
about everything 

they've never seen

forgo the touch
they'll say
pluck the lucky from the lineup
let them hammer your hands to the halls
so we can all sleep
with martyrs

it is written in stone
they'll say
here,
where only the wombed wear fruit,
it is the wombless who've conceived
us. dark and brooding
men. who love to smite

those free enough to use the will 

they gave away. 



wb