Mimesis

Forgive me, I cannot write poetry, but I find it necessary to prove this to myself repetitively.

She haunts
Me
Like nitrogen

Light that nearly smells of her
Fell from the child’s eyes

As her unimpressive and
economical voice, pushing cracking,
Spun up
Toward the watered stained ceiling

My fingers, unwillingly,
Press into her arm

Looking down I see
The blood pricking up
From my fingernails

They tasted of metal
And salt
And regrettably tangible

And as I walked from the room,
Forsaking my shoes
and stood in the center
Of the courtyard adjacent
To stare blankly toward the sky

the scent of the grass
Robbed me:
the taste of her blood