breathless,
slumped beside the well-used,
stained, stainless sink,
i peer around the splattered curtain,
through ugly, informed glass,
to see you there, crumpled
staring far away,
into past promise,
sobbing.
sticky-red gloves stripped,
bare arms crimson,
afraid,
i wash away your son’s blood
into a handful of dust.
“He was eighteen years old,” I whisper.
