.
.
i believe that scars
arise in preconcieved spots.
long stems that sprout sideways
along the skin because they don't
look for light. but like a backyard
dog they look for a way out. instead
they stay. hang themselves on walls
smile back from family albums,
await narration from an aging
mother's finger. she talk about scars
her secondary ones. the windswept sun
dries up the blood. i slept
in this bedroom once. history covers you
like a blanket leaves you warm
then sits folded in a corner. i've always
thought of a wheelchair as justice.
their half-words weigh on
my shoulders, a broken scale
awaiting counterparts.
.
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3 comments:
i approve this edit. i thought about telling you the last part about god was a bit heavy-handed and somewhat outside the poem's tone, but then i thought no, it's his edit. and voila! maybe i should be more forthcoming in the future.
it feels like you are in an upward swing. i don't mean to jinx you. how do you feel about this poem? how do you feel about the stuff you've recently put out?
thank you. frustrated.
hey this is a really cool poem. how's that for insightful commentary?
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