Ode to the Math Compass
North is the downward swing
catching wrist, splitting skin,
digging itself in between tendons,
between muscle, fingers going
numb, tingling, and like first love,
you keep thinking, “this can’t be
happening, this can’t be.”
West is the shove against
the bathroom sink, porcelain
pressing air out of lungs, edges
of it against back, against kidneys,
the point of the compass coming
out of you, sliding, and the point
has so little blood, so much shine.
East is the release, knee crunching
into hollow of his groin, bastard
crashing through stall as you push
away, chase him through walls
of chipped paint and phone numbers
for good head, bring that bloodied
fist over his neck, his skull, club until
face and arm and wall meet,
and that tightness of the body
lets go, and he falls free, to a floor
of piss and pine sol, and there
are so many patterns now, blood
making maps on tile and clothes.
South is the compass in the good
hand. South is bringing the needle
of it into his back, South is making him
learn to never fuck with you,
South is watching him reach
for the new hole near his spine.
South is the screams, letting you know
something good has been found
with that compass, something good.