Cut thumbs and messy
love lives, 
you punch us
in the eye

from the grave
while the peanut-crunching crowd
watches the ripples
of the bodies and minds
pulled under
by the precise weight
of wounded words.

I want to tell you
both something:

The glossy black spider
outside my front door,
two red triangles
almost an hourglass,
could kill me,
but she hides away,
guarding her little ones.

My broken friends,
something forgives us all.