impaling my brittle heart on its poisoned tip,
draining it brutally to the last vital dreg
of anemic blood- my wavering lifeline.
The fire from her caustic tongue has burnt
the solitary kernel of my cloistered being,
give me a brush so I can sweep the ashes,
give me a rag so I can wipe the slate clean.
(One of my favorite Native American proverbs says: It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand)