Through restricted airways, my battered rib
incarcerated and asked to remain silent,
finds shelter from a lessened heartbeat; my
maltreated bio-rhythm shying away.
Smelling of sun-melted rind, his blue-collar
blistered fingers strike tar-hued tangled
strands, once heavily lying upon my infantile
shoulders, in a piercing exposé of locked
retention; saying farewell requesting
forgiveness, despite any auspicious guarantee.
Hands I want to hold, boyish scars I hope to settle,
I have bled for years and Yesterday’s
child forfeits any such win. Chinese Jump
rope left me the undefeated champion with
love, 1989. I bleed as the flow of crimson swells
up dead on arrival, in inoculating my uncluttered
remembrance from paternal semblance.
It’s the heaviest winds that hit the fucking
hardest.
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