https://thestoriesinbetween.com/
I can’t get the stain
From my hands
Scalding, castile mornings
Bleach and razor blades
Sloughing the scale from
Flaking, disintegrating fingers
Clogged drain, mold and hair
Alcohol drips with purpose
Down the leading edge
Of your grandfather’s
Antique barber’s shears
Ceremoniously honed
For such an occasion
Nails, one, two, another
Meticulously torn
From the cuticle, bleeding
Next, the fingers are easily
Cut, what’s left, removed
Walls painted, room filled
Adorned with sickness
The cleansing requires depth
And the process unforgiving
Until forgiveness is found
Among the scattered
Remnants of exposure
The stain spreads, up the arm
Past the elbow, shoulders
Brittle, greasy hair, wired
The stain shrouds the scalp
Clumps, tufts fall, decorating
The porcelain beneath sticky feet
Toes spread to collect the offering
It’s better this way
Or at least necessary, to unravel
Shine some light on what sleeps
At the core of all this
Before the hands grow back
And the stain returns
to read more from River Dixon at ‘The Stories In Between’: https://thestoriesinbetween.com/
