Last Word

I don’t need to make the last sound,
you can speak it, yell it, growl it;
think the final thought about it,
rip your exclamation point
onto the pamphlet paper
and then drop it in a crowd
to tell the world about us
and all the wrong I did.

my knife doesn’t have to cut
the bloodiest deepness of your being
to free me; I don’t need you to bleed.
I am done, my love; you won:
the world can believe your story
and you keep the royalties.
All I want–please–is the arbor knot
locking my ankles undone
and, I promise, I’ll run.

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