Sonnet: This Blood

I’d say you didn’t find it as you, hoping,
flipped the pages of the Book of Women’s Curses
(while I hovered like those hospice nurses,
in a hush). I say you, fiercely hoping,
didn’t find this blood when you were scanning
proofs that God is dark, that He coerces
tears. But now, I sense the mock my verses
seem; you hear just artifice of …man-ing.
You say yourself it is not fancy talk.
You say yourself you see more, feel more, now.
So, please, don’t smooth your grimace like your skirt
as you present yourself — or try to caulk
up tears with facile cheerfulness, somehow.
Just say yourself; does vision ever hurt?


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