Nothing

"Nothing, my lord."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing will come of nothing: speak again."



It's easy to erase pencil marks,
or delete keyboard strikes,
but not so with inscriptions
carved into skin.

         Dance, dance,
         to Benny's Sing, Sing, Sing,
         I can swing
         to beat.


My father
returns my scraps of thoughts
dripping with red ink.
And I know
I can trust his confidence.

So I scrub and cut,
before it scars over
and I can no longer erase.

And sometimes ―
         sometimes ―
while I lick my wounds,
I can make seen.