(The strange man cups my face on the bleeding side in the field.)
It is me and mammy and daddy and
jesus. Mammy and daddy are fools with
spades. Jesus is cool to the touch, has
wet feet. The house is behind us,
thatchy, cottagey, whitewashy. The hole is
uneven, wet. The grass is wet. There
are daisies. My blood falls into the cups of
the daisies like that blackbird my daddy
killed to show us how to hang upside
down. I am holding jesus' hand.
My mammy and daddy are on the
other side holding their spades. The
house is small behind, like a child's
drawing. It is the end of a summer day,
no sun left but still blue for awhile.
There is the sense of an animal nearby,
a nice one. Maybe it is just jesus.
I feel things crawling on my bare wet
toes. Things attracted by the blood
on my neck, on jesus' hand, the hand
he used to cup my face. He did
not stop the bleeding, that was not his
aim. His hand was warm and not wet.
My parents' hands are cold from their
spades.
It is me and mammy and daddy and
jesus. Mammy and daddy are fools with
spades. Jesus is cool to the touch, has
wet feet. The house is behind us,
thatchy, cottagey, whitewashy. The hole is
uneven, wet. The grass is wet. There
are daisies. My blood falls into the cups of
the daisies like that blackbird my daddy
killed to show us how to hang upside
down. I am holding jesus' hand.
My mammy and daddy are on the
other side holding their spades. The
house is small behind, like a child's
drawing. It is the end of a summer day,
no sun left but still blue for awhile.
There is the sense of an animal nearby,
a nice one. Maybe it is just jesus.
I feel things crawling on my bare wet
toes. Things attracted by the blood
on my neck, on jesus' hand, the hand
he used to cup my face. He did
not stop the bleeding, that was not his
aim. His hand was warm and not wet.
My parents' hands are cold from their
spades.