EDWARD IT MUST HAVE BEEN HARD TO HAVE SCISSORS FOR HANDS BECAUSE SOMETIMES IT'S HARD TO HAVE HANDS FOR HANDS
and by then you'll have become
I remember your back cracking like a wrist prison prison prison.
Yeah, ham sandwiches. Prison prison prison.
I'm repeatedly drawn to the concept of physical transfiguration and how we might react/cope when some force(s) conspires to change us irreversibly. Or what happens when we conspire to change ourselves. When are we/aren't we complicit? And, of course, there will always be sandwiches and sadness and ShamWows. This poem was a rarity in that the title acted as its main generative force.