Pine
I scraped the sap from a pine
over and over again until
it turned to resin in my hand,
impossible to wash away.
I used it to get a better grip
on my baseball bat, something
to allay the pain in my palms
when I twisted my wrists.
I used it to close the shallow
cuts on my left wrist before I
knew that what I had done
was to traffic in suicide.
Only bright days ahead,
I thought. Sunshine and lollys.
*
Rusty Barnes lives in Revere MA with his family. He’s published 16 books in the small press, most recently a chapbook of poems called DEAR SO&SO and a collection of stories called HALF CRIME. He is proofing a crime novel. His next book of poetry might be called Country Matters.
