Bleed
Raggedly, the knife bites into my
finger tip, the blood springing instantly
out of the cut curve of flesh, overflowing
the raw edges of skin.
I lift my hand to heaven. The blood
slows, oozes past knuckle, down
wrist and arm, unstoppable. A scarlet drop
falls to the white-tiled bathroom floor.
The small planet, like all fluids, echoes
the form of Earth, drops of oil that float
on water, rain, tears, hail, the pupil in
every eye, the configuration gleaming
red from the tile below.
Mosquito Lake Road, October 27, 2023
Mosquito Lake Road, a long loop through the forest,
keeps doubling back on itself, as if admitting
a mistake and trying again. And again.
And the lake is not really a lake, more like
an embroidered bog. Today, though, everything is
golden—the day and hour destined for the big leaf maples
to undress themselves. Out for a drive, yet we are
simply parked, watching. No breath of wind,
no haste, but it is time for each tree
to un-stitch its bruised yellow leaves, one,
then another, and one more, and so on, each
floating down the still air to rest on the muddy track.
As if this is nightfall, time for everything to
settle down for the long winter sleep, and for God to
snuff out the last lights of the known world.
–
Luci Shaw is author of over forty books of poetry and creative non-fiction, and her writing has appeared in numerous literary and religious journals. In 2013 she received the Denise Levertov award for creative writing from Seattle Pacific University. Her most recent poetry collection, Reversing Entropy, was published in 2024 by Paraclete Press, publishers, also, of her forthcoming book, An Incremental Life.