Intent

It doesn’t matter

what you mean for

something to be

once you release

the thought, the deed 

from between your hands 

like a bird it takes flight

and chooses its own path.

Outside of the hinterland 

of your skull, your skin

your control over the 

causeways of action

and interpretation 

dwindle like a rivulet

until the earth 

hides their endings. 

Sitting here in the bedroom

surrounded by laundry

I want to be clean

of the stain of injury 

to any another 

but each of us has 

pitfalls and old wounds

that lie invisible 

beneath the surface.

In the car 

all those weeks ago

you were trying to warn me 

and I was trying not to listen 

trying to deny the price 

of the future

but I do know that we must 

be able to trust

that we can speak

and be understood 

if our reparations 

are to take root.