Men I've Known

You bleat
about life changing experiences
but if it came to murder,
you’d get the job done,
unemotionally, so dispassionately
that your back slappers hands would clasp
over their own mouths. Whispering
to each other, of how you’ll fall apart,
if not the next time alone, then
in some quiet moment late at night
or early in the morning. They
imagine you quietly crying so as to not wake
your sleeping woman, holding something;
some rosary-beads, something you took
from your victim; something that you can look
at, and beat yourself up over. They are wrong
because they assume you have a soul.

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