Bruise Blue

They had swarmed, expectant,in the back bleachers, ripping skirt and shirther legs kicking up, catching wild handsbucking like a rodeo pony, prodded electricthe frantic powdering of moth’s wingsmouth stopped by mitt upon mitt of salted slapsarched backs, pounding fists on keyboardsmad jazz, tympanic torsionhamburger grinding and all the belchingoil spills and dumb eruptions then—the blue stillness of the left-alone.She fetus-rolled and went blanksinking through gel, catching each edgewith a rough palm in passinga red meditationa serration.Without the hard shell to clutch back allthat had been pulled out wildly and stuffed back neatlywith barbed-wire stitches and scotch-tape salvesshe had to relearn balance, love the slantof light going gentle there, mend hips and ego,numb the grins and whispers thatswaggered by, accept prayers lingeringin wet, kind eyes like river-smoothed stones.She cauterized dreams of tangled amber,body’s newness, thoughts of princely thingsonce promised in dabs of pink gloss, stickyglitter, and a snow-globe’s gilded carousel.She marked a calendar cross for every daythat followed the one bruised blue, likestrolling a graveyard lit fullof luminol kisses.It hurt, the sad sag of Dad’s shoulders,the tv’s curt clicks and cold triggerof Mum’s tongue, volleying blame, spitting disbelief.Under words flung like a gnarled net, she satdog-dejected, inert as a snoutful of quills.She would seek then hide the pills, hoardan arsenal of sugar, stir the sediment of drinks and sighHealing is as gusty and oceanic as time.Sleep is her suspension, a whale-belly bedknobbed by barnacles and the deep embraceof ribs so heavy, curved, and mute yetbuoyant like a breath in winter.She vows next time to be vengeful, agile,and kinetic, so as never to be caughtsurrounded againwithout weapons.