Cruel stairs
triangular
at the corner
no landing.
A flimsy handrail,
steep risers,
poor light.
I fell down them once.
Blood stain, shape of a toad, remains.
Scar on my scalp like a squashed gumdrop,
painless.
Listen, here’s pain:
No double bed could squeeze up
that narrow passage
so for twenty years my parents
slept apart in twin beds.
Would their love have grown,
would anger have withered
sleep deepened,
touch softened,
dreams roamed safer
with the accidental bump
of bodies in the night?
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
