Ribbon Cleaver

There are so many things this isn’t about. The time
I came to the dinner table, she had refused to feed
me and you were there playing with the statue of Mary,
mirroring her hands with your hands. The leaves of
the plants were the size of our faces, the apples were
yellow-green gold and on the table, the glass cabinet
shook with each door slammed. Soon came rain in
sheets, coating the block in waste and sewer rats who
came in pairs from the subway grates. Streetlamps
sparkled, each bearing holographic snowflakes for
the holidays. This isn’t about the punishment, blue
wafers with damson jam in the center, I found bags
of lettuce under your bed, I stole woman-shaped
charms from your underwear drawer, made faces
at myself in the gilded mirror, my eyes puffy from
frustration and sleepless nights, I’m not trying to be
sensitive. You told me you could resume loving
me and I hold it against you, that word, love, can
you imagine what it must be like to stop, to know
when excess has been achieved, you affirm if my
body is necessary.