If I could unmake
What I was made to make:
(from “Poem,” by Edwin Muir, Poetry, January 1937)

Sometimes the psychic pain over spilt milk
Burns like a bitch and a pair of bastards.
In that moment when it drills you hard,
Like your gizzard is being corkscrewed out,
Scrunch your eyes up hard, twist your face hurt,
Mutter, “God! Stop me from looking backwards!”
Then give your eyes leave to piss out old dirt.

Call it cursing, call it prayer. Makes a damn.
It’s nasty, not a pious exercise.
Doesn’t patch what’s torn. Makes you wonder.
There it is! You wonder why you’re born.
There’s plenty more where that old dirt comes from.

(c) 2026 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved