He's in the dark corner
of a bar
sticking his hand in the flame,
He doesn't tell us
what he did in the war,
what he saw,
but instead
just shows us how. tough he is
and lets us take it from there.
So the flame is a head exploding
So the flame is a child
holding back its bleeding guts.
We don't have to know what
the fire is.
But his hand glows red
in its reflection off the whiskey glass.
His skin's black in places
where the healing changed its mind.
of a bar
sticking his hand in the flame,
He doesn't tell us
what he did in the war,
what he saw,
but instead
just shows us how. tough he is
and lets us take it from there.
So the flame is a head exploding
So the flame is a child
holding back its bleeding guts.
We don't have to know what
the fire is.
But his hand glows red
in its reflection off the whiskey glass.
His skin's black in places
where the healing changed its mind.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline,
Hawaii Pacific Review and Clade Song.
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