August Poem 38: Woman Cutting Truth

The holes in the wall for electrical

Outlets, the light switches. Always wrong. You.

White walls cut and cut again. The you. The

Adjustment of white walls. Raised and installed.

Pulled down. Cut again of a pan of hard

Work. Timed. Protected. You sweat in the house.

Beat. All the sudden. For no reason. The

Celery, and peppers. Tonight. They’re just

White dust dying in your hands. Her cut. Truth.

A suitable piece of scrap that you cut

To fit the spot where the wall crumbles.

It gets on the floor. It gets on your clothes.

In your hair. In your eyes. It gets on.

Because even in your eyes it gets on.

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