The Fist

Maria why are you so gentle?

sometimes I want the fist, right into my face

but you, with your light fingers

turn the page, tap on the glass or

stroke the painting until I collapse into

sting and sprawl of my nerves;

But I don’t want it like this,

sometimes I’d rather just hurt

sometimes I’d rather you curl

those light fingers into a heavy fist

and let loose, black my eye or

break my wrist, something so I’ll feel

pain again and break up this numb

within me.