by Ivor Irwin
I explain. You
hear shouting. You
regroup. I see
you’ve picked my scab.
You are reasonable. I
see shades clipped onto your bifocals. I
apologize profusely. You
sniff out expedience.
I am a nice Jewish dove. You
say I’m crazy, like Saul. You
throw me an olive branch. I
am cut by its thorns.
You gush blood. I
see no tears. You
will not take a dive. I
have loved you for eleven years.
IVOR IRWIN is a native of Manchester, England. He is the author of A Peacock or A Crow and has published writing in Sonora Review, The Sun, Playboy, Shankpainter, The Long Story, Actos de Inconsciencia, The Review of Contemporary Fiction and various other journals. He writes a weekly column on Premier League soccer for Global Football Today. He thinks that a kidnapper who quotes Malthus may auger well for future sociopaths!
