From this slow burning boredom
I put on Jacob’s pants; Jacob’s shirt;
I put on Jacob’s socks & shoes & glasses
and I step stupidly into the noonday heat
& scream: “You
fucking son-of-a-bitch.”

“Bitch” melts into the sun.
First it is only an echo of the sound,
then the memory of an echo,
then it becomes a dull
inadequate space where meaning was,
finally, it becomes two brown cow eyes
staring at the sledgehammer.

I take off Jacob’s shirt; I take off Jacob’s pants;
I take off Jacob’s socks & shoes & glasses
and I stand in the heat
sweat covered, bestial–
my shoulders drop, my head twists
and a slow growl grows in my throat

I am the hands that hold the hammer
I am the eyes that see it coming
I am the heaving groan that throws the weight
I am the bone that breaks.