08 – Wound
She’s my mother now
Creeping slowly across my chest to my mouth…
Ripping the flesh to shape a smile…
Sailing the future disaster
Through the gardens of dust and salt…
The wreckage we’ve been calling “peace”…
Far out and naked,
Staring at the stains of the sheets
With a blind, empty stare…
Quietly eating all the flesh I cut
Ask: “who will be the next one?”
