Monday, April 20, 2009

Question


Question:
How can you watch
me
your child
bleed,
and do nothing?
How can you be the one to make me bleed?
Sometimes, when
rain falls like poetry,
or like powder falling to the floor,
voices meander,
leaving me quiet enough;
still enough,
and I hear you, I remember you,
not abuse, not incest, not your raping hands,
but your laugh; irreverent and silly,
your red hair,
your cologne, and
our tremerous bond.
Only for a moment,
then, swiftly,
tidally;
the secret,
which I have refused to keep for you,
returns,
the thunderous motion of your fist to my face,
you slipping where you made blood pour.

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