Shirley Jones-Luke
Blood
Artwork by Krista C. Graham, Sunday Illusions, pen on paper
Blood
|
It was on the bed, near the edge
streaked across the door, a crimson flag on the carpet, splotches of liquid down the stairs, drizzled on the railing leading to the living room, maroon dots on the floor, like a swirl of clouds mixed with the dust and dirt of suffering's past, there was no pain, no cry of discomfort, no tears, you took it in stride, even laughed as I tried to hide my fear, seeing the black mass stain your clothing, I helped you to the car, your gait was unsteady, but you refused to fall, your clothing was covered in red, a map on your gray pants, creating maroon borders like countries at war, but this was an internal attack, your body was fighting a malignant assailant, who was determined to eat away at your spirit; devour your soul and savor the remnants of your being, I could not have it feast on you, you, who left smudged tinted fingerprints on the door knob, you, who had drops of blood on your sneakers, you, who sat on a towel in the car then on a padded chair in the ER, you who waited patiently for the nurse then the doctor, with only a thin layer of sweat on your brow, you, who would not be bowed, you, who would not let them see your pain, watched me wipe the blood from your hands, squeezed mine, and wouldn’t let go. |
Shirley Jones-Luke is a poet, writer and educator from Boston, Massachusetts. Ms. Luke has an MA in English from UMass Boston and an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Shirley has been published in the Skinny Poetry Journal, ENUF, the Voices Project and Raising Mothers. She is currently working on a poetry manuscript tentatively titled, Urban Nectar.
