by Mary Harwell Sayler from poetry book, Faces in a Crowd
See, that’s why I don’t like to get close to you!
When least expected, your expression jades,
and your eyes reveal partially concealed blades
hinting a dagger glint. “So?” you say,
calling me out with unanswerable questions
about what I mean by this or that. If I don’t
defend myself, another point quickly comes
on which to gouge me like a pumpkin. If I
protest, a sudden scramble of barbed wire
covers you like your very best shawl. But that’s
not all! I feel as though you want to see me
squirm – or kept in line with what you find
true or good or right for you — and yet,
ironically, I want that too. So I concede:
a trick to treat myself with cooling
quiet – a way to conserve my energy
for when we meet again on All Saints Day.