Our Fight

Our fight is hiding out inside of me,
a thief about to be caught, a cramp I keep.
It’s stealing my ease in sips
and burps,
unpeeling my eviction stickers
and turning them to flags.
Our fight is radioactive, with a half life
of two times one half to the power of Fuck Off;
it’s mutating my baby, which will seriously put a damper
on his scheduled metamorphosis,
tentative next year.
Our fight is a love song,
only furiously angry–
a sonnet stuffed in a lullaby
chucked headfirst into a woodchipper.