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Pieces
July 18, 2015
You cut me
into tiny morsels,
leave me
wide open,
bleeding rose petals
the color of tears,
stuff me
into the rough,
resilient
sackcloth
we call my body.
I am little pieces
of places
scattered,
but planted here,
for now,
tomato seeds
for myriad gardens.
Please –
please, don’t ask me
where I’m from.
You won’t like my
answer:
I,
or rather,
these
smeared
red pieces of me
on the immaculate linoleum floor,
come from everywhere.
© Kristin O., Quincy, MA
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