Some thirty-odd years apart,
pins, posts and arteries intertwined
and intermingled with
all fourteen of us.
You walk on sprained ankle
back to the house you were born in,
your head pummeled and habroneme,
shows us what you've done.
Our view here is unobscured,
and now we know that yours is too
filled up with lacerating tails
of demons and ties that
bind you to the past and we
are here to set you free with
these scissors with pewter handles
that you've never seen before.