The Bereaved

I mash down on the brake.
Hardly anyone ever mentions
just how slippery blood is.

That son of a bitch, my heart,
waving and shouting

what sounds like hi! Hi!
when there’s nobody there

but clocks and busted mirrors.

Many suicides
are misclassified
as accidents.
Then it’s spring.

© 2012, Howie Good

Author’s Feature Week: Howie Good. Also read his new poetry book, Dreaming in Red, from Right Hand Pointing (all proceeds from that book go to a charity:


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