By Susie Gharib
He’s come to slit the throats of my odes,
disembowel my poems of metaphors,
dismember my stanzas and my vowels,
and make a carnage of my concords.
He’s come to stab my themes to death,
slash-rip the rhythms of my verse,
slice every limb of my images,
then fracture the skulls of my puns.