Pity

and we were supposed to recognize this dank silhouette: He--mottled, knotted, screaming shrugged into a lice and tick-eaten rag, wrapped tightly in her unwashed hair? light emanated from his bare footsteps his progress spreading a dim glow miles around, energy prompting boats he stood on to push themselves into the middle of lakes should I have picked a different sacrament? no--the outstretched arms are familiar enough I’ve had that bite, the tormentor’s lean, the vein-loosening shovel-dig into the hand, the saliva and spit. it’s not that I want my distance or to only kiss your cheek but for pity, for pity, do i really need dangle from the same hangman’s tree to know your love, to stamp it on my brilliant new skin?