Things that Tear
by Domenic Scopa A sheet of paper. Swollen eyes. Clouds pierced by sunrays after summer showers. A blade does something like this against skin. A bitter marriage. Twenty tender heartstrings wrenched by a lover’s note. That note. New asshole. Bandages. Achilles tendon, strained (not torn). A doctor points out tumors on a lung X-ray, and some section of stomach churns unfamiliar. If enough blood wanders erratically from a young man’s stab wound, and the mugger thwarts, and dodges cops, we will most likely say the mother’s heart is torn. Cushions. Worn asphalt. Morals--a child in a smoggy factory, standing still in an assembly line for fourteen hours. |
|