Grace Abrasion

The momentum of times
like these; a numb finger,

blued from remembering what
your quicksand memory hides.

Still, the flaking, red ribbon
is perched above the second

knuckle, and circulation
is no longer an option.

Birth is the coldest brevity,
arctic bee-stings. Jokes

about fishing for a fetus
that died of strangulation.

Umbilical chords play a
withdrawn opus.

I see you licking that
sandpaper popsicle,

even though your mouth
is torn and bleeding.

Will you bottle the red
juice for me, and choke on a

toast to rotting fingers
and frozen babies?