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.