Poetry 2013 / Volume 44

Blood in the Wood — David Alexander McFarland

There’s blood in the wood outside my door,
a spot of darkness in any light, there because
I cut myself, but still I had to let the dog come in.
I bled around the pressure through the napkin,
grinding teeth against that millennial memory—
the feel of steel sliding through easy flesh—
while cursing all knives and my foolishness.
A little numbness still persists.
Painful miscalculation—
the history of my life.
Scars accumulate,
memories grow.
Children worry.

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