BLOOD SPOT

It was the year he became
the blind man
whose fingers
were chopped
bumbling a sawmill
while dreaming a shrine.

Watch how he pitches about in
dust and briars, desperately looking for
each severed piece.

No one has told him
certain things can’t be reattached.

Listen as he holds his breath mute.
Men built tough; boy not cry.

With the fetid stump
he brushes damp earth
around his dad’s fresh tombstone,
shadowy reflections in granite.

The yellow and purple variegated pansies,
that survive even down to 10 degrees

The indentation of the wedding ring
still faintly visible on one of those missing fingers
were he able to find it and note the
gentle slope and alluvial valley where it wore thin.

Victimhood’s devout religion
the wronged find their shriek,
the forgiving hand in the
tiger cage shredded.

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