variations on a bruise

A Free Verse poem

Warning: This writing may contain themes of psychosis, violence, drug use, and death. Reader discretion is advised.

---

It begins like a clown’s hair—
frazzled, beefsteak red as he stumbles drunk out of ring three in front of the families;
red as my mother’s marigolds hanging on our wasp-infested porch,
the stinging paddle marks from the weekly visits to Vice Principal Oulyan,
or hot cousin’s period left on the front seat of my Buick for friends to find.

Then a settling into Bubblicious grape—
stolen from the Danners along with cigarillos and an Alpha Flight #28;
purple as the glittery puffed seat cushions in the church friend’s boat i learned to ski behind,
the Hot Wheel that commemorates my last happy Christmas,
or opium us skaters rolled paper clip thin and laid with care beneath the reeking ditchweed.

Receding at the edges with fungal movement—
amoebic, pond scum green preserving zombies sealed away in barrels;
green as my daughter’s shit when she locked eyes with me and giggled,
the rock-hard sour apples pouched in our slingshots for waged war,
or bile foam walls from a paint suggestion i jokingly made that got taken seriously.

Wasting finally to its cadaverous sallow—
rotting, apocalyptic ocher to complement the toilet bowl streaks spider legging out from the rim holes;
yellow as an Indiana twilight humming from crusty bumpers while i crept the junkyard aisles,
the cowardice we never talk about from back when faced by bigger bullies,
or the teeth of our aging kin as they wince in unison with the tinkling porch chimes.