Deborah Hunter <wolfhawk50@sbcglobal.net>;
word weaver: http://www.deborahjhunter.net/
Found
ON THE OCCASIONAL BEATING
Found
Sorrow is not blue.
It is the absence of fire,
the inability to see purple.
Sorrow is eyes plucked out,
blood gone dry,
newness impossible,
ashes, soot, remains and dust.
Sorrow is not The Blues.
In a valley, after summer rains
have washed the air clean and the grass
sparkles with diamond dew,
a perfect, half-pie moon,
bright as only bright can be away from city lights,
unobscured by clouds,
shines down.
ON THE OCCASIONAL BEATING
She never hit me where it showed
except by accident.
"I-will-kill-you."
One time the belt buckle snapped free
lunged forward
like a rattlesnake uncoiled, hit me
across my nose.
"I-will-kill-you!"
Blood dripped
roused a forgotten nightmare
of a pillow pressed down
pressed down
flailing arms and legs
"I-will-kill-you!"
It was as effective
as a strait jacket
I lived inside
the lines
she drew for me
heel to toe
slack face
bland eyes
arms to my side
"I-will-kill-you"
was all it took
most of the time.
TOP
