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Salt on her Wounds (Thursday, July 7, 2011)

July 22, 2011

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Salt on her Wounds

Everything his father didn’t tell him has blood on it
some of it his father’s blood
some of it the blood of the ones his father
struck, and enough blood to want to hide it
enough blood to cover his wounds
not enough to erase ours

He leans into my bubble—whispers,
“You are my friend, right?”
he asks me to look at his hands
a rare moment of idleness
not an honest question,
“what do you see?”

With what he hopes we do not see
he slaps her backside like brand on cattle
iron left too long on flesh
with no simple answer to this
simple action, questions
sufficiently concealed under our fear

to answer, leaving him as
he peers at the stains
under his nails, transparent but opaque eyes
he, too, is afraid
to answer—or ask
of his too busy hands

whose redness drapes
the seam around her designer pockets
because she, too is afraid
to ask, answer… or feel
the blood on his hands and the salt
on her tail.
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2 Comments leave one →
  1. July 25, 2011 1:06 pm

    i’m ashamed to say that i have no idea what this is about. it’s intriguing though …
    July 8, 2011 11:41 PM

  2. July 25, 2011 1:07 pm

    Dear Dangerous Linda,

    Why do you not know? Because it is your opportunity and invitation to create as much as it is mine.

    So, I guess my challenge is to not take myself so literally–or is that your, the reader’s, challenge?
    July 8, 2011 11:55 PM

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