ריש לקיש

my mind is a new knife
dropped from anvil to water bucket:

quaking, cooling, hardening,
subject to rituals of purity and loss,
waiting for a thief's hand
to turn it in a lock, or heart.

I want to turn in yours.
I want to force open your smile,
cut out your sideways glance,
break your generous hand.

I had no masters when we met.
by the hissing riverbank
my veins robbed my heart of blood
my hands robbed your mouth of speech.