Some days I am a machine gun
of apologies and gratitude,
an automatic weapon of regret
and sincerity and when the smoke
clears in the firing range
of our kitchen, your ears
ringing with vows
that it will never happen
again, I am the sound
of a hammer chattering
against the hollow
chamber of my promise.
I am every calibered casing
marked I’m sorry, forgive me,
I didn’t mean it.
Every brass thimble
of thank you and thank you
and thank you, scattered
on the tile floor where we hold
each other, swear nothing
has changed, and kiss
cartridges into the empty
magazines of our mouths.
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