Wednesday Morning Sweats
I pretend I’m blind so they won’t bother me, but I have been alive just long
enough
To read men even with my eyes closed, hands out, fingers reading the Braille
of sweat
On skin. If Joey wants to talk to me about how I killed his brother,
That’s just fine. Joey can come in and sit beside me, here, on the prison
cot. I would love
To share with him about how the world looks when everything you see is
tinted red,
How even flowers looks suspicious when you’ve just killed a man.
I pretend I’m deaf so they won’t talk to me, but I have been alive just long
enough
To feel someone coming at me through the soles of my feet, to know exactly
When to strike at invisible things. If Joey wants to talk to me about how I
killed his brother,
That’s just fine. Joey can come in and lay down beside me, here, beneath
the stiff white sheets of the prison cot, and I’ll tell him
About how the world sounds when your ears are full of blood
And how even songbirds sound suspicious
when you’ve just killed a man