All Tied Up (2023)

Someone asked,

“Could you write me

a book of poetry by hand?”

I gave it to them

but I bound it with the ropes

I use to bind me:

My torso hangs akimbo

like a masterpiece

in butchered pieces—

suspended—

some consider it

perverted; others

a knotted ballet—

I consider it a job,

binding my heart up

like any 

self-proclaimed artist

or deviant

would.

You should

know by now 

that I am bound

hard and fast, too,

within a proverbial Chinese

finger trap:

Push closer!

You yell,

but I tug

to pull away

like every interdiction

against our being

Here I am

hangin’ around 

with some asanawa

air is nice up here

but my nose

is starting to bleed