IF MY FIST COULD SPEAK

 

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would recount dumb reptile incidents of fractured picture frames, how it didn’t even injure the lies the photos told beneath the bloody glass

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would refuse to

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would put lyrics to metronomes originally beaten against car dashboards

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would scream

 

 

 

If my first could speak it would tell you of the inadequacy of plasterboard before traumatic sorrow

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would grin through scars

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would explain that everyone had always talked about taking down that wall anyway—and that now we can see each other, from kitchen to porch

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would shake instead

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would assure you that it has only been aimed at things it was ready to hit

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would decry the system of safeties that binds it

 

 

 

If my first could speak it would tell you about disappointments, betrayals, about the paradox of its effects against rapists and bullies

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would sing bluely about its tribulations in a world of guns

 

 

 

If my first could speak it would lament how Bona fide targets slip like mirages before it can land, about how divorce, neglect, injustice and loss have no cartilage

 

 

 

If my fist could speak it would say that it’s just about the size of a heart