by Gabe Foreman
Every ink blot on his flashy flash cards
is a perfect copy of my therapist (my nemesis)
playing the buccaneer, hoisting a cutlass on shore,
wrapped in a shawl of livid bees.
Those who talk as if they cradle honey on their tongues
are best avoided. Most likely their eloquence is bent
on divorcing me from my amulet of coconut and sand
on the cashmere cloak of the sea.
Those who speak as if their tongues had been stung—
as if the island of their solace had been captured—
mumble: Do yourself a favour, stranger.
Tell those pirates, sayonara.
They take more liberties than prisoners.
