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The minute you say want, the light which was red

is most certainly now, a womb—a thing no one wants to

stare into, most certainly a thistle, where nothing is safe.

any corner could be a cement truck. or a gun. Strange

no umbrella prong ever catches the eyeball, no

fisherman’s hook ever drawn back too far. The fears we have

of flames on the skin or bones crushed

under mallets. Though most accounts suggest some kind of

comfort, considering. The body goes limp, the mind

forgets, the pain isn’t what he

remembers, whose wife bludgeoned

his skull with machete, only—

the strange trail

of blood in his eye when he looks, wondering why

she sees him this way now, what the years

have done.

from play deadFind more by francine j. harris at the library

Copyright © 2016 francine j. harris
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.

Published in francine j. harris Poems

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