Day 89 of 100 Poems/100 Days

Anvil

Between the hammer and the floor,
my hand is caught.

And when it strikes,
my fist will go flat,
fingers broken straight,
pointing straight and away,
like kinsfolk, for kins’ sake.

I am driving fast,
in the 67′ Cadillac,
with my pigeons in the trunk.

In this moment, I realize:
the scars you draw are worthless,
when God intends to draw His own on your limbs.

I pray that when
the teeth come down,
one after the other,
gnashing, like a shark’s jaw,
I will already be gone.

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