You Killed Poetry

You killed the poetry

                                       in me.

The blueberry bruise above
                                              my collar bone

is from when you beat it out of me

with those heavy
                              working hands.

You stomped it out on

the muddy grass

                              of your yard

and hung the stale stringy bits

on the clothes line,

so everyone who drove down

                                                the county road

could see those private, shredded

                                                      halves of me,

swinging sluggishly in the breeze.