A poem about the broadening reach of stains we try to cover & hide away.
Smoke glaze of Crayola pink salmons through foamy Colgate spat from mouth to porcelain sink in the washroom nearest the bedroom overslept in this morning. To look at it, spineless and slow, amid hunkering swirl gurgling down to wish on gators, is to see the frail rivulet percolate on New Hampshire’s white meadow late in December, to see it bubble beneath blood oaths of brothers, solemnly sworn, made null by the twist of an axis wringing the color of life from tattered red panties tossed to the tumble of snow-soaked socks circling like doves through soap and boiling water.
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