by Katie Kilcup
Blood-letting day. Thursday, the sun is resting on the head of a walnut tree.
I drain and faint in the lobby of a church. Red bag of my oxygen and mineral self,
myself on a hook, growing fat. Thursday, and the dirt drinks what it needs
from the sky. As flowers go, Bleeding Hearts are deceptive.
Wispy stems and small sex, they’ll take the whole bed if you let them,
sloping colonies of Thursdays like this.
My parents eat and laugh in the good light. Steak on the porch, wine, wild rice.
I will not be misled.
Pale sky rolls back the day. Thursday, the end of things
crawls through the garden, like a cat, silent and wet-pawed.