A Kid Of Three
The man was busy again, like an eight legged thing,
the better to clutch, in sickness and dying, in a
grimace, in a motion that tears down the world from east to west,
and stops only to refill what is spent in more horrid darkness
from inside his heart and mind. Until the man sees blood, he
is not fulfilled. Who the kid is doesn’t matter, not on any
account, not in particulars, not in general. And the kid got it,
but he could conclude nothing - three years of living is no
match for a monstrous touch. Cowards show up in lies and deceit,
and a kid of three knows something we don’t know.
Author Statement
This work was a no feeling work. My emotions were stuffed, buried. Written years after the abuse in stared at the page in stunned comprehension. I had lived this experience the words whispered to me. I had written hundreds, maybe thousands of poems, but never one directly dealing with the abuse. Afterwards I carried on. I must have carried on, a thousand miles from my healing.
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