A man with bleeding hands at the back door of Out of the Closet
this morning asked me for the bride and groom figurines at the
top of my donation box to put on the grave of his recently married
sister. He was topless, wore skateboarder jeans and hid what was
left of his shrunken skin behind an eddy of venous blue tattoos.
Impulse almost succeeded in steering me clear of his sanguine arms.
But who was I, making a donation, to doubt him, to dismiss his story
and bracket him on account of his homelessness? I watched as he
inspected his bounty, the plastic case unopened, his blood in the hot
midday sun running softly off the white exuberance of the dress.
All rights reserved.
First published in Magma (UK). www.magmapoetry.com