there is no answer in vengeance because vengeance is only the apparition of repetition.
this is why in the morning i would go and prune my climbing roses.
i would fork spade after spade of nutrient-rich ground
back over the roots, a morning ritual.
and then i would wind the cut stems around my wrists
and pretend i was capable of filling death
with something other than life,
like duty, or shame,
or the nutrient-rich corrosion
of an unacknowledged self...
but the roses were props
and the pretense was hollow.
now i philosophize
inside
and the rose grows
a tangle
over the wall of the house.