I’m Out of Cheeks to Turn Your cackle still stings though I did not flinch at the time, or the other times. I excused you, did not realize I had been groveling instead of upright to face you. Bruised knees ache to straighten as I rise from the floor, but not to stand up to you. The taste of the dirt you kicked in my face now means something: the grit in my teeth I would spit at you (like words I am too smart to say) is really fertile soil. Your unmeant gift will flourish my gardens. I will effortlessly push away from you like in an oar-less boat, making no ripple, silent in my descent. You will not even notice I am gone until I am even too far away to yell to from the shore.