A shortcut to undo; and so the hateful words we say –
hateful because we have not loved someone
so much before – can be reversed, undone, erased.
A dream come true: No evidence. No blowgun

residue. No shadowy pin-print in the chest, where
the pointed tip pierced through. No plaintive call
to cauterize the wound. No sky gods cheering
for a second act. Nature reversed: No crawling

back, no silken trail, no bouquets of fattened leaves
in new host trees with larval tents; branches where we will
leave our scent and later, feed. Limbs in silk sleeves
like spring in a dying season, as if to ornament the kill.  

As if, behind the screen – like lotuses – merciless words
did not fix their roots in swampy waters, undisturbed.

Copyright © 2020  M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.
ublished in The Florida Review

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