You broke the spines of the books
I keep in a white cabinet.
painted over, twice over,
once lacquered brown
now hospital white.
The pain can be seen
through glass panes:
writhing paper bodies,
bruised, wounded, mangled,
bleeding dry ink.
This crime must be paid in kind.
you must agonize,
learn the pain of writer’s block.
I will pick your eyes out with pencils,
stuff down your throat
pages of pulp romances,
starve you with cancelled stipend.
Grant? What grant?
You will never write again!
Your fingers will turn to springs,
the kind in spiral notebooks.
You will pay.
That will teach you to mess with my library.
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