Howard Firkin
This might work: tear them, like you tear a sheet
of paper, into pieces, so they’ll fit
into your handbag. When you go to meet
your hireling Solomon each handy bit
is coin in which rage can be quantified.
"A piece half that was recently accorded
enough for any father; I advise
ask more: the heart routinely is awarded
to mum; no, leave the spleen; yes, take the eyes."
Where none looks to forgive, our laws divide.

Your children will remain forever little;
you’ll wizen, grey with lying, and depart,
a mist about your mouth, a spray of spittle;
the damp fog of a nugatory heart.