The Injury

Dear, in our house, where one love has grown strong,
where one heart of your truth and of my knowing
has been built up, and is of itself growing –
how is it that my actions still turn wrong?
O I have injured you when all seemed well,
and I have drawn my teeth across the skin
of my own fate. For you, perhaps, a pin
has marked you briefly. I have seen my hell
and turn, and jerk my head up to the walls,
the surfaces I’ve painted, you’ve adorned,
and hang my head, being by our good love scorned,
and in my head are dead nights and cat-calls.
O I had meant to let you see in verse
I knew your hurt – but my own hurt is worse.