Writing in Blood
by Steve Klepetar
She copies out a hundred poems,
then does laundry in the big, tin
tub. Next time she writes will be in blood.
Her brother climbs a ladder to the roof,
watches stars burn a path across
the early winter sky. If he fell, she would
bury him so deep the wolves would have
to dig for days to find his mangled flesh.
She owes him that and more, his firm
hand stuffed into his shirt as though
to hold the heart that must be tumbling
from his chest. She hears blood throbbing
as he stares at mysteries. What blue pulp,
his eyes, what a handful of white teeth.
His colors are pink and white, with orange
calluses on the bottom of his feet. She
marvels again at the size of him, his
shoulders and his weight, all that solid bone
pressing on shingles and struts. And still,
somehow, he flies, light as a mindless thing,
a wretched bird, warbling hard against the wind
Gyroscope Review 38
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