But What if the Blood is a Bone Thing

A rutted splinter, etching

and inching its way

through the marrow

in small bites, travelling north,

north towards

the hallowed heart

that is probably sweet-tasting

and mild.

The blood that drips

from your nostril to your cracked lip

could be a cancer

taking little nibbles

of heartrind

in ten to twelve months, its mouth

half-cocked and smiling

as confident diseases

are wont to be.

My hands worry at the brow

of your hair as you sleep;

you roll and move

away as I whisk

the pads of my thumbs together

like some stupid, soundless grasshopper.

It’s just that bloody-looking

blood as it dripped off your face

to the dinner plate, and you thinking

it was a tickle of the wind

as you smeared a crimson crush

across your cheek

with the back of your hand,

and I’m sure you will be dead

in two weeks to six decades

as will I, and our mothers,

leaving only our children

staring over yawning holes

left in the fallow dirt

with their dusty, bone-dry eyes.

QUINN RENNERFELDT studied creative writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder and has recent works in Bird’s Thumb, Sassafras Literary Magazine, and Slipstream. She was awarded Breakwater Review's Peseroff Prize for Poetry in 2015.