You don’t think in a conscious way that it could never happen, because even that would mean to allow that it could, when it is, in fact, the unthinkable. But the world will always think otherwise, or would if it could. And so your heart is torn to pieces. Not into neat, square pieces like paper creased and ripped along the sharp edge of the kitchen table of your one and present life. Like the pound of flesh that it is, ragged, an urgent beating thing. If you could, you would press it, warm and sticky, against the white walls of power, making red-stained valentines.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s