Like a cobra springing to bite the back,
devour flesh, rip it open, the line of the whip
curls and reneges, falls to the ground, before
striking again. What might one ask was
harmed in the slave owner holding the
the handle of a whip in his fist, like
the sleeve of a light bulb as it crackled
with currency? What in him was shocked?
What vibrated in his head, broke in pieces,
like a shattered GE when a terrible regret
occurred? What bled from his heart in the noon
sun, as his dark shadow puddled beneath him?