The following poem comes from Read Write Poem’s prompt #81 – a picture of some sort of donkey-man looking quite glum sitting under a spindly umbrella. Dana Guthrie Martin, RWP’s resident maven, shared the image, which is brought to us by nwolc.
This is how it feels to be kicked in the heart.
Worst is the hole left behind, and the bubble where ribs bulge back.
Last night, after a long round of such talk,
Sally said I should do a fire walk. I’d feel great,
better than all the therapy that hadn’t cured a thing.
If hot coals didn’t work then nothing would.
Just me and a few smoldered thoughts
with which to cross the threshold.
I’d know everything I needed to know
as soon as I tasted burn at the back of my throat.
Half way I’d see the beauty in the end of things.
How like cures like, what bows wrap shut.
None of which means much atop flame,
oxtail smoking nearby
for later when we’ll eat and tell stories of our lives made of flesh.