Self-Portrait with Zoloft and Fruit

Today	   slicing sourdough	     my finger beaded with blood 
Once I cut my palm so deep	     the wound was blood

less	      and now I’m back	in the grove	      beyond the fence 
memories flapping hard in my chest	    thieving blood

oranges	      filling my backpack
I used to come here at night	     hungry	 hot-blooded

needing to still my hands	I used to run to escape
my breath	   I have learned the sound of a cow’s cry	   ox blood

smeared on the floor       across the road from the pasture 
and yes	     I know it well	       blood

staining my sheets	  staining the dressings a nurse pressed 
to my wrists	      All those nights in the grove	   blood

shot eyes	 hair turning to smoke	 And I am just a forest 
burning long and red       or maybe a blood

bath	I would rather be water	    guiltless	    gleaming 
That time the farmer heard me cough       released his blood

hounds	     how I caught my arm on the barbed wire
a gash spreading fast	      the familiar sensation of blood

streaming down	     the taste of fruit
still on my tongue	 The horizon slivered with a blood 

red sun	     Someone might call that light hope

Read more from Issue 19.1.