“Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang!” —Arthur Miller
In the space
where foolishness
counters sense
rests the rub of trust.
I cannot speak:
my name’s
an aggregate
of shattered
bones and blood,
pulp in a thin
skin bag
sags against
a closed door.
My name’s
wrong; it echoes
its mistake
along empty halls.
For decades,
I’ve learned
it’s wrong
to trust
my uttered
name;
a red stain
seeps across
the floor.
(March 21, 2015)
