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Finger split down to my bone
My bone juts irresponsible
Wrong colors, my bones out
Try telling a nurse all about it
She’ll tell me, “Why can’t the sky
Be another color as your bones?” I say
“My bone showing” (a muscle chasm,
Blood split in my body, between
Dark & congealed dying earth)
“No, that’s not why, not why at all—”
“Who let Bunny out?”
“Why Bunny is out?”
“Bunny think pouring acid down your brain
Make you his sex slave.” Oh.
But Bunny been out a couple years. “Well what’s
The difference between bone and its skin.”
She sew me up
(Hills and muscle plinking guitar strings)
“So he the reason we don’t have Easter no more.”
“Pretty much.”
I kneel out on the porch
Dripping blood, proud of it.
Twitter: @ghostofolson
