When resentment curdles, call it gratitude.
Coercion’s marbled belly-fat. Your thin-lipped
grin begs it, your eyeless smile, a paper cut.
Write it in the firm tread of a soft-toed shoe.
Envy’s past tense in the passive form. Hope
upended. I preserve your disappointments
under wax paper, and wheeze prickled breath
into a kilner jar. The sweetness will fur. One day
I will feed it to you, with the promise of wine.
We’ll lie between the thin sheets of a fever bed,
sweated from submission. This gratitude.
I bow. But I’ll not rest my head, not here –
at a block where, one day, I will make you kneel.