is what he'll say after he stabs Eastside,

washing another man's blood from his palms.

He'll tell you it's in his veins, the hot lust

for retaliation, inherited

from his mama & the 8 Mile streetlights

& sometimes his daddy when he came 'round.

Through all these years that part of me still sticks

to my ribs, probably be what kills me

he says & you see yourself in him

the forest fire taking place

on the route between your body's two shrines

the fish choking in their tributaries

the two warring tribes burning their own clothes

& shouting to their new god. He won't rest

this night. He'll lie in wait, low & steady

in his cell & in the morning he'll laugh

at himself, tell you it's all pointless game

ruthless dance. Just how it's gotta be

someone plays you in front of a crowd

you gotta show & prove you ain't soft

he'll say, it all goes back to one question

are you gonna be a wolf or a sheep?

You'll think about this game before you sleep

every damn night for weeks straight. Survival

is a dance you've learned well over the years

without knife, razor, or lock-in-a-sock

but you look for traces in the mirror

every day for the mask of a savage.