A handful of grass
is my only anchor
to that awful past.
Clutched and drying,
indeed, dead at last
upon the pulling.
The grass once grew green,
and the border stones,
painted bright-white,
bound the garden,
round,
and rightly
so, but now
my fist is made of weeds
and when I clench it,
the thorns pierce and I bleed.
I once saw a painting
of an Aztec man
pulling a thorned rope
through his cheek.
I wondered if the grass he held
had turned to weeds
and
he knew his memories
could only be redeemed
by those thoughts that bleed.
©️ 2020.
