We fall into love easy,
that prismed insanity with no asylum
seen as rainbows arcing cursive
a name across April and are lost
to some happily ever
but it is the after that bleeds–
tearing away what’s grown together
not with scalpeled cleanness
but blunt dissection–
learning after the fact whose body
which veins belong to, shared humors
staining the field and obscuring vision.
This procedure should be delicate
and staged, as in freeing
conjoined twins;
learning which nerves
fire pain fastest, whose heart
is held in gloved hands,
deciding who dies;
but this, done with words
and without anesthesia, the knives
of our mouths bladed and shining;
never autoclaved,
kills everything.
Susan Daniels Poetry 