Shot.
Don’t think I’m dead.
[Checks self for signs of entry or exit wounds]
No Blood.
Not yet.
Too soon, I guess.
[Blood takes a long time to well up from the soul]
Different.
Feel different.
Something living lopped off the family tree.
Felt it crack the length of my faultline –
Spirit torn from flesh before its time.
[Eyes too hot, too raw, too dry for tears]
Felt it fall,
Fall free of me,
Fall headlong, slow and silently screaming
Into the black beyond redemption’s reach.
No echoes, reflections, reminders, recollections.
Less.
Shrunk.
[Not missing a bit of me at all, but a bit of all of me, that’s all.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem