listening to the pretend attorneys, the room laughing  

as they debate, “allegedly”– tear the heart apart.  

Connect it with wire. Put the halves on separate sides.  

Let one die. Where have you been lately? 

Have you been listening  

to yourself talk like you love it?  

but you can’t hear words. Only, 

pebbles falling into sand.  

It’s the rhythm of your voice  

hitting against each bone  

of your ribcage.  

The rhythm, not the words, remind you  

of your mother’s blood 

beating against your body  

as it grew from her. No one told you 

and you refused to learn— 

the words are there. More than your soothing. 

More than a sophistication. 

Even when you can’t hear 

each syllable as it beats against 

the bones of your victims.  

 

“Victims?!” you say,  

eyes rolling. You’re only  

doing your job. Like everyone else.  

You get up. You must feed your family 

And they eat each dollar you bring home, 

 

sew the money into blankets. When you tear 

money from the tenant’s 

hand, her toddler in court at her knee 

nowhere else to go, 

you were just doing your job,  

that woman didn’t belong  

there. And you had to take her money home 

so your daughters could eat it— 

 

the fiber forms their bones, the money shapes their walls 

like paper mâché, it is all that stands between you and the street,  

which is not paved in money. And the girls have got to eat, you know they have to eat.  

And you don’t know what else you could ever feed them 

their bodies rotting into the linen ink. You know your girls have to eat and  

fuck that toddler. That shit’s covered in snot so dried to its face 

you could rub it raw and find more 

that little shit doesn’t need  

to make rent when piss reeks  

from his body in an apartment or not  

what’s the point of a bathroom 

if your mom isn’t home  

to wash you in it? You’re not like that,  

that’s not you and anyways, whiny shits,  

jobs cannot beget victims. I’m just talking 

I’m just talking, its hypothetical,  

Advocating for the devil  

In case he comes to town  

And we need to see it his way, his way, need to see the other side, 

Just wondering if that shit of a baby needs a bathroom if he 

Is going to keep showing up like he doesn’t give a fuck 

Like he can’t even say “no your honor,” “yes your honor,” “I don’t matter your honor,” 

“degrade me your honor,” “honor me your honor,” “whatever you want, your honor,” “I’m yours your honor, for whatever you want”—can’t even manage that the little fuck, fuck that kid fuck that kid fuck that kid. stop asking for different, it does not exist. We will not make it. We don’t want it. We don’t want it. We don’t want it. We don’t want it.