My gut is pierced
Not the physical, but the psychic
Not a knife, but a fork
Not alfredo, but tomato sauce

The fork attacks me,
a plate of linguine marinara:

Pierce the pile
Twist round
Feel the reel, the dancing circles

Pull in all I am
All the essentials
Trailing stringy strands

What was


A ball big as disco
The silver flatware long since slathered
in bloody twine, scarlet vine

I feel about for the loose nub
The end of my rope

Pull gently
Unwind ever so slowly
Don’t break the ties of time

Delicately, I will prise the fork and
dispose of that which has strangled my being:

The damnable tapeworm
he planted inside me
all those years ago

© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

Sunday Scribblings tossed us one word: Explore. I went inward. Also at the site that never twirls me ‘round unless it’s fun: Poets United.