his hands cover hers
gently prise away
even though the fingertips
are slick with blood
reaching for the bars beyond
beyond the hole
above her head
which serves as a window
in the black stone wall

the only light in the dark
their faces and hands
white against black
black walls, pitch black night
his black silken shirt
his black boots
and the black pants

her black dress
covering everything
until her neck rises
like a swan
impossibly delicate
to hold her head

their pale faces shine
hers with exhaustion
his with determination
pulling her back
down and away

turning her
into him
hiding her
face to his chest
bloody fingers with broken nails
to his lips
licking them clean
one by one
delicately, like a cat
grooming her
in the only impossible
most improbable way he can

bloody lips to her forehead

life is a bruise
a stain that grows
is never fully erased
he leaves that there
because he must

the lines of pain, worry
frustration, guilt, terror
anxiety, sorrow, anger
hate, even hate
resignation

they have all etched
themselves, there in her face
reminder to him, to her
to the world

that the walls are real

06/16/2004

Posted on 11/01/2007
Copyright © 2024 Gira Bryant