An Evening Act of Violence

They ripped her to pieces

on the lawn of 

someone she trusted,

two who had no business

anywhere near her.

How cruel, the fate of onlookers,

safe, but helpless behind a fence,

watching without physical


Defenders from all corners rushed,

one wielding a baseball bat,

striking far more deadly a pose

than any seen from

the pitcher’s mound,

shouting a declaration 

with such conviction, 

I believed her.

A voice stopped the world

from turning, 


conveying an emotion,

so unmistakably maternal,

as they handed the small

body back 

to her worried mother.

They will tell you this is life,

that violence is a part of nature,

and so is death.

They only say it because

this did not happen to them.


You asked me if I liked to watch
men fall under my spell,
as if I weaved a clever message,
subliminal in my lines.

Let me tell you,
man I have never spoken to
I don’t.

And my poetry isn’t crafted
to ensnare unsuspecting men
like you,
but happens
almost compulsively,
to better understand myself.

I keep shreds of paper near me
at my desk, in my car, near my bed,
and somehow make sense of
fragments and pieces. It is like a
jigsaw of words, trying to escape
my mind, and I want to understand
the way that they build thoughts.

As for men, they are not my trophies,
nor are they my victims,
and if showing men my poetry makes
them fall in love, then
should I don a habit and
marry to a church?

Am I such a danger,
wielding a pen? Do my words
make you come alive?
Are you, too, under my spell?