There is nothing worse than “nothing worse” —
the scene of childhood trauma
absent familiars and useful fingers
throttle the estrangement of face
the turtleneck doesn’t conceal.
The rip along the shoulder line is cause —
I am open to everything. Lay it on me.
Or, The evergreen weeds tore it open.
I am not a murdered seven year old
and I’ve spent enough time behind bars.
Those violent plants insist upon my innocence.
In a conviction overturned twenty-three years later
the remnants of my mother’s anger
die with a history of blood sugar.