To the Last Rhizome

they say you hurt, a porcupine in distressed alarming close encounters with a pain that runs to the last rhizome like pulling weeds yet they grab your most intimate whiskers The marked calendar echoes one truth: running was always an option with legs and arms bounded to a paralyzing grip we meet eye to eye with imaginative bites that tear morsels of my delicate flesh But who are you in your soft and delicate nibbles? a reputation unmatched! As we unroll ourselves in our union, my eyes acquaint to these new measures. A gift is bestowed in the name of sadness, wondering why I never bothered to meet you.