Pablo Neruda’s Bloody Knuckles
The other poet’s flaccid hands tightenedTo red then blue. His knuckles frayed and bled
In pricks and blotches that spread and brightened
His pale brown fist. A beacon that then fled
And hid in his pockets, got stuck on cloth
That had he pulled could cause a rawer wound,
And so he let it stew in sweat. A broth
To suck on later. His eyes, now harpooned
Into a scene not meant for him but still
Tied to his heart because one half the pair
Was she he loved from far away until
Now. What’s called the opposite of heard prayer?
With blood as ink he wrote upon the sands
Of writhing arms, spread legs and eager hands.
Poetry by Sameen
Written on 2026-08-10 at 09:34
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