It must be hard on my slippers,
as I drag from room to room,
head bowed like a retreating soldier
blooded in the line of fire.
I have no physical injuries to speak of
no fractured bones, flesh torn limbs,
no need for salve that soothes
or tablets to numb some searing pain.
But, I am shot in the foot,
by past mistakes and sin.
I now stand dissected,
split like loves amoeba.
I wait at closed doors
like a pining dog
at the grave of his dead master;
but they stay unopened, firmly shut.
For living alone, where
there used to be two,
doesn’t leave one....
it leaves half of you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem