He said he’d hurt himself against a wall or had fallen down.
But there was probably some other reason
for the wounded, the bandaged shoulder.
Because of a rather abrupt gesture,
as he reached for a shelf to bring down
some photographs he wanted to look at,
the bandage came undone and a little blood ran.
I did it up again, taking my time
over the binding; he wasn’t in pain
and I liked looking at the blood.
It was a thing of my love, that blood.
When we left, I found, in front of his chair,
a bloody rag, part of the dressing,
a rag to be thrown straight into the garbage;
and I put it to my lips
and kept it there a long while—
the blood of love against my lips.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
NOTES FOR A FAILED NOVEL Tórshavn, Faroe Islands Start with the location, basaltic hills, green against the grey sweep of the North At...
It's not easy being an American abroad. Between being peppered with questions about politics and having your feet stick off the en...
After graduation, Christopher and I left Chicago in the van from our recently defunct band and set out on the ghost road to California -- tw...
The auto-detect feature of Google Translate identifies Faroese as Icelandic. That's understandable, as Faroese and Icelandic share uniqu...