A Hole in Chapter Twelve


i do not worry
or suckle on the tit of retribution
like a piglet weaning from its mother:
karma is not a verb; you or
your hands moving weighted like the fate of time
cannot make it dance, nor sing, or sit under the
burning intensity of penance.
it, like all things
plays its own hand; and you, with the bruises
and the tears
and your destiny stained with the mark of sacrifice
wear the cross with ease:
a martyr, if only be definition.