poem-

His father wore holes
Though he couldn’t see them
He knew them
They bled white and black spots
He watched the spots trickle then flow
all the way to the floor where the
floor would tilt toward himself
but then he’d open his eyes and see
that the blood was red again
He thought anyway that it was red again
He thought much then
Especially about his father and
the holes
But he didn’t need to now
Now he thinks about where
he might find his first hole
and what might come out
Maybe it wouldn’t happen
Maybe he’d not bleed at all

-M. Taggart

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s