The car on ice spins out at 70 miles an hour.
My sister throws herself over the banister
breaking both legs (but not her life,
which is what she wanted).
A wild man worries the locks
of the doors and windows
as I run just ahead with my little girl
to secure each one.
Just so, violence plays
in my dreams.
And in the light of day,
a tin can cuts my finger to the bone.
At work my ankle turns
above a wet shoe, and down I fall
flat on the linoleum
of the old department’s floor.
My anger at a co-worker’s refusals
throbs like my finger and hip.
We are torn, and we
tear; the throbbing vein
tells the truth. We wrap it
and unwrap it, and like the peels
and tendons of a pomegranate,
discard its stained residue
on a serene white plate.
Painting "Dood snipje" by Jan Mankes, 1909