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August 1, 2005

Michele: The Stain Remains

I scrub, but the stain does not disappear, or lighten. I rub the cloth on a rock, but the bright splotch of red remains, shaped like an eye that stares at me accusingly.

I throw the shirt into the lake, wait for the wind-ridden current to take it away, to carry it eastward towards the beavers, where it may end up as damn filler.

It catches on a lily pad instead. The bloody eye gapes at me and as the shirt shifts with movement of the water, it folds and wrinkles until the stain is not an eye, but a finger.

I stand at the lake, accused and guilty.

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Comments

pls do send me the copy i had liked the same very much

Posted by: ritesh at August 4, 2005 2:40 PM · Permalink

Mother of gods.

Posted by: Stacy at August 4, 2005 3:05 PM · Permalink