writer – Page 12 – Thistle Thoughts

You Must Wash Your Hands Until They Bleed

A poem written under quarantine.
My husband, unfortunately,
has Covid-19.

They say the sky
is thinner from that high

my blood can’t handle
any more apologies, insistence
on the right to celebrate
genocide…

I think of loneliness
& laser beam precision

Remember winter, Madonna’s
Immaculate Collection album,
Megaman III, a false sense of
innocent security

in their eyes we are worth
what we can do for them

the tide that took
you away had a
street name

A cherita

I had to let go
of a life I planned for me

prices paid,
empty pockets
& callused hands