*this poem in featured in “the nothing”, the previous post, but it was written before and published here before. I changed a few punctuation marks; here’s the definitive version.* ~acb
Swallow blood to staunch the grief.
What bruises bulge beneath, soft flesh split,
which veins spill sadness: it does not matter.
Only someone must lick the wound,
as humble as dogs in the temple.
© 2017 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.