A bruise

I took her hand almost eagerly—
Fast enough to soothe my surprise, but
Slowly, too, for that uneasy feeling of
Some half-bitten piece of food
Resting in peace on my tongue. 
The hand—I've forgot whether it was
The right or the left now—was multicoloured.

It was a malignant streamer
Stitched on the back of her hand of purple, 
Blue, and green. 
I suppose it would take me some
Sixty more years to know how
Much it would hurt when veins rupture—
One after another—for moving heavy things.

"How!"

I cried out loud—
That wasn't a question. 
I did not want to know.

I could answer it myself, but the taste
Of dried lips and a good load full of regret halted me—
I bit my lower lip
So that I could concentrate on some other pain.

I blinked a few times so that I could look away, and
Stop thinking about what goes on beneath the skin—
How those tiny tubes torn out of their circulation, 
And blood oozed out to dry and clot. 
The hands on the clock twitched, and a few minutes later
I've forgot—

I went back to stare into my bowl curiously
And concentrated hard on the shape of the food. 
I suddenly realised that—it was chicken
That I ate, and while pushing the food
Around in my mouth, 
I choked.

Dale Chou
2001-03-17