hens and chicks (old)

I’m done with loving
I’m done with eviscerating myself,
gut to spine,
tired of bleeding under my clutched fingers
as I wait in line
to buy the bread I
stuff in the hole
like a pullet.

I’m done with mourning
I’m done with tattooing your name
in memory across my arm,
tired of telling people
that, when written, the letters in “me”
only matter in “mine.”

I’m done with loss
I’m done with this un-animal solitude,
tired of crying alone in the library,
the last chick in the henhouse,
when all the others have been yanked out
and with a whine,
branded.