Salt on her Wounds

Everything his father didn’t tell him has blood on it

some of it his father's blood

some of it the blood of the ones his father

struck, and enough blood to want to hide it

enough blood to cover his wounds

not enough to erase ours

He leans into my bubble—whispers,

“You are my friend, right?”

he asks me to look at his hands

a rare moment of idleness

not an honest question,

“what do you see?”

With what he hopes we do not see

he slaps her backside like brand on cattle

iron left too long on flesh

with no simple answer to this

simple action, questions

sufficiently concealed under our fear

to answer, leaving him as

he peers at the stains

under his nails, transparent but opaque eyes

he, too, is afraid

to answer—or ask

of his too busy hands

whose redness drapes

the seam around her designer pockets

because she, too is afraid

to ask, answer... or feel

the blood on his hands and the salt

on her tail.