poetry bound

Never this year has one slim
volume of poetry captured so
eloquently the aching loss
of the poet's mind. The pinch
across the neck that tightens
as you fight it, your own  
heartstrings ripped from 
your gasping breast 
for use as garotte. 
You will break 
free
from the separate holds 
of these poems
only by a desperate, 
twisting, flailing lunge
and vow: If he ever tries
that again I'll kill him! Reader:
he does it to everyone. And: 

you are the one who will.