Net

Abigail Tuscano

Listen, do listen,
don’t break this net tied around me.
My whole life, I have tried to get out of it.
I’m familiar with the thorns bound to it,
but all of these thorns have grown witnessing death.
Before sleeping at night,
I laid down with a hand caressing their hair.
And when I wake up in the morning,
that mouth of theirs has become sharp.
So who’s to blame, my friend!

Listen, 
I beg of you, do listen.
I don’t have any need for flowers.
She who used to become content upon seeing their color,
her gaze didn’t remain.
The scent of this net has been bound in my very breath.
What will I do with flowers?

Listen,
I’m begging you.
Listen, don’t cut my net.
Just leave me be.
I find great comfort
within this net, my friend!

As much as as you shake to get out of it,
I understand through living within it.
Where are they outside, 
the hard times of this age?
Let me bite this net, buried inside.
Come on, distance yourself.
The many-mouths of the net’s teeth
are doing well in my liver.
If, while biting the net, they break within me, 
then don’t ask what will happen.
The elders say—
Broken thorns cause ample pain.