her bruises are patchwork,
a craft embroidered into her
skin like thread in paper.
she is the marrow of their
bones, and the missing kidney
or soiled liver they own.

she is all this and i
am the gun
the pointed trigger
finger in her tender bruise
yellow and healing
green to the unkeen eye
but i see the make up
covering up her heart
revealing to me that she'd stay even if i killed her.

and the gunshot
doesn't crack or sound,
or twitch in my hand.
her face is steady
and her body is too fatigued
to be scared, it will later.
her color is unpatriotic,
and i am not a proper citizen
to her or the places we occupy.

And so i go south of the border
finding refuge in cheap alcohol and even cheaper women
ramming my fists into them
hoping to cure the disease and the image of you
crying in the corner
like i did
like i did.

but the hushed sounds they make
don't hold the same melody
and you are all i can think of,
even as blood congeals. you,
quieter than any other protest,
feel up my veins as they heat
with liquor. your memory remains
unadulterated, but the rest
becomes messy and loud in my head
as my hands do damage.

i forgive your well being
in my own way.

10/30/2005

Author's Note: Three in a row with alaina

Posted on 10/30/2005
Copyright © 2024 Uriel Tovar