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Blood has splattered my tunic
from a knife I never saw
plunged into a breast I
longed to caress, but no
permission had been given.

I hear the demand on me
a washing for sin
for the blood someone
else shotgunned across
my face, and dripped
on my curling fingers.

I would clean my hands
and stretch them to intercept
the cursed knife’s glancing arch
towards the miraculous
membrane that so beautifully
holds life.

But I am slow
untrained in combat
and there is so much blood.
The walls of this place I work
are also blood.

© 2000 John P. Nordin. Do not copy.

Last modified 6/27/06; © 2006 John P. Nordin