Letter K.

She’s been through the abyss
and lives with sweaters.

She’s seen lies, and goodbyes.
she’s known what it’s like to matter.

She’s been loved and forgotten—
or rotten.

She’s been all kinds—but one.
She can’t realize
what it’s like to have eyes
and glasses.

She can’t make them feel like thinking.

Thoughts hurt.
They live like gangsters.
They speak with an accent
and break with metal—
metal of pounds and Scrabble.

It boils like a kettle
of fragments that pierce
the kettle and what it prepares.

They can’t see
how their meanings sink
into a kettle.

It can’t whisper.
It yells:

“Free
the fragments
of letters”.

They splatter.

They run in a roaring yelp
of cattle
that can hold
neither the kettle
nor her.