Wednesday, March 16, 2011


And she took her heart and a soldering iron
and she cauterized her soul.
It was a stump, a charcoal black.
It smelled scorched. She gagged, then retched.
She seared the crimson quiet.
And then it did something unexpected.
It bled...and bled...and bled...
and wept tears of blood.
She took the torch, turned it on;
tongues of blue flame licked the wound.
But still it bled.

"And the bush was burning and yet it was not consumed."


Anonymous said...

She allowed herself to feel the warmth
and then, kissed, it came alive.
thumping, thumping, thumping.

Aaron AtoZ said...

This is very sad for me to read.... because it reminds me of someone I know.

I hope Anonymous's paragraph is the true close of the poem.