It mocked the meat it fed upon

[I]f it con­cerns any­thing not in our con­trol, be pre­pared to say that it is noth­ing to you.

- Epictetus, The Enchiridion as trans­lated by Elizabeth Carter

O, yes I saw how you said
what you said to him. That
flirt to fuck and sweet hip
shook once. I gave a glower.
Tense mute brow a bent 
soot streak. In si­lence,
the mind ac­cretes a heap
of imag­ined in­fi­deli­ties.

Though we en­tan­gle. Become
the roar­ing fire gul­let the
frenzy wran­gle the
clutch [[g][r]]asp tor­rent.
Mantises!
You in the shower and 
I should be in with but I’m
read­ing texts on your phone or
scour­ing your email my
skull a black iron set by the
stove in­nocu­ous un­til
you touch it.
                               Some books say: 
                               “To be pos­sess is to hold, oc­cupy
                               or reside in, with­out re­gard to 
                               own­er­ship.” “It does not be­long
                               to you.” “Repent, there­fore, of this
                               thy wicked­ness.” 
The way I stood over
those many women, still,
with silent loom, tan­gent
phrase, fear be­yond
the closed door more than me.
but not for long, long ago, no longer.

                               Nor now al­low all free­dom, no 
                               eye-heat adren­a­line-
                               hand snap-tongue with­er­ing. 
                               Morph yet not to bud a peach
                               but die to white­fly. Seed-
                               germ split to, spilt upon,
                               spit on, ground down to ground

                   for growth
                   un­likely.   Every al­ley a false Buddha. Our
                               spoons have long han­dles. We can­not 
                               feed our­selves, 
                                               but we could 
                                               feed each other.
           Learn to speak
                                O,
           muz­zled ox, or starve
           with food upon your back.

Speak your piece