Worried my love’s not worth much, but I always
come when called. Ain’t my name your favorite
command? No need to raise your hand. How
long you plan on marauding me with meak
mercies: I’m still bandaged from your last love:
dogged years I’ve knelt at your lap: tongue out,
eyes wet and for what: when it’s not your hands
on me, it’s your dead come ready to wind up
and wound.
Copyright © 2025 by Saeed Jones. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 5, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
