Ryan, my son

From the wound
cold blood gushes out,
like from a fountain,
it gurgles
plentiful up to the point that you ask yourself
how a single organism
can produce so much of it,
for then
you throw it outside
with so much indifference
the eyes half-shut
the distracted breath,
the abandoned hands.
While on the other side
of the screen heart in throat
you would want to cry out to him
Fix the wound
now, strongly,
don't let it
slide away,
this river
of blood
from your,
from our,
life

July 20, 2005