“… [need]le me no more …”

They say we reap what

we sew, so maybe this 

explains 

why you choose

to needle me more than

ever, even when on

quite silver plate I make the

effort to create 

the best day I could’ve 

made for anyone

ever – perhaps even the

dears and fears and stairs 

and dares to

kind bedrooms of love

extended: the real Claires 

that one day

will be there for

me, and one and two, and

tree too,

and why not?

And so 

why limit oneself 

to sewing zeroes when

reaping heroes multiple and

various

can be one’s 

re-

peat

ed goal?  

And how 

I loved you 

quite really, 

in that country of

joy, that country 

I love, that

country which loves

me back and forth,

and so resource-

fully.

And how 

briefly, how 

now,

in your doublin’ trope,

you extinguished all hope.

And so whilst my 

strife plays the

game on,

and makes me

ashamed of ever having

met with 

her, of ever 

having loved 

with her, of 

ever having 

thought it my duty to

call and 

sear 

and 

rear 

and

sire in her womb, in her 

tomb, this is when I sudden 

realise it 

will not be she who

reserves the

wrong to define my

masculinity in

terms of work and done,

the terms she refines,

but me, very me, 

who will demand the

right to the 

might of being, and

loving, and sex and

such: for it is she

who reaps what

she has chosen to sew.

Never me who 

has sown up such fields of

un-

gated hate.

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