Here's something for burns,
paste pressed into a tin, given
by my witchy friend. Each morning
I rolled up my sleeve and rubbed it in, despite not believing
much in these kinds of things, home
remedies and undoings. A part of me is glad
it hasn't worked, my shoulder feels right
with the old scar, or sentimental for it.
On a list of what I do believe in, god comes after loss
and long before forgiveness, that burial impossible except
when absolutely necessary. I can't imagine a world
where apology is equal to its promise, or free
of its roots: away-speech, speech against, defense—
dear old violence, muscle-deep and pent.