by Marisa Siegel
too honest today. This is dangerous.
It’s funny, because I have no secrets. By the strict definition of secret – no one knowing – I have none.
None of no one knowing. That is true.
April has not in fact been cruel to me. Last year, I wrote that July was the cruelest month. (In my July poem.) I was sitting in the reading room at the Public Library. I was feeling very writerly. But I didn’t know about September.
And of course, there have been September poems before this September and after.
Tomorrow I will see my foot again. My new foot has hardware: two plates, small, and screws. Scars: two. A small, angry line on my shin from the graft. On my foot, E. says it’s really more like a river than a lightning bolt. I like rivers.
It’s all still scabbed over, and of course you cannot see the thing’s truth while the scabs are still scabbing over.
Danger is relative. Danger is usually