Don’t worry about the bruised and broken chest.
Concern yourself with your head,
for you have much to decide.
Think about what must be done.
Breathe into what you’ve shattered,
what’s come to pass, pieces, while the taste of the whole is still
on your tongue.
A beating, blurry vision…
was that you, there, or a phantom?
Is this real
because you feel it?
Is this here
because you see it?
A pulsing compulsion moves questions along,
the judge will arrive any minute, now.
Your statement is all that can save you!
Return to your senses.
A fractured skull is not merely a wound:
You are liable. You are criminal. They found you out where it happened.
There is no time to feel sorry for yourself. Your pain is shared by less-deserving parties.
Perhaps there is freedom in taking responsibility. Blame begets more blame.
As the mending placates pain, your only concern
should be the logic behind the injury,
realism, as in art-
sensation-inducing life explaining-
the kind of statement the jury will understand:
This was a crime of passion. He wasn’t to blame. I will right my wrongs, just tell me how.
They will forgive any weakness,
so long as you give them the story they waited for.
They were waiting, you see, since before you committed your feeble acts.
They were born for this.
You were the one with a choice.
Kaitlin Sansoucie 