untitled 8 by Margaret Stacy

fingers clenched 

on clumps of damp grass 

white hands 

same as the moon 

bones showed through 

knuckles 

cuffs on jeans 

baptized by the old rain 

the soak 

crawled up legs 

and lined them with bumps 

stomachs choked 

on strawberries and Prozac 

its growls sang with the 

whispers of evening wind 

eyes soaked like the grass 

peer out to their neighbors 

an empty parking lot 

another thing abandoned 

eyes blinded by 

double headed streetlights 

like cat’s eyes 

looked to the lines that span 

the cracked pavement 

another thing left for dead 

fingers unclenched 

wiped the cloud’s sticky blood 

off onto jeans 

it left a streak of mildew 

and grass entrails 

on the right pocket 

but hands will wash it out 

like they did to you