by Shawn Allen

Blood drips from clenched fists
polluting the dark earth.
The door before me is closed.
No key or knob of entry shows
on the blank face.
Only the blood from my broken hands
mars the surface.
Tears stream from my eyes
shame and rage
given form.
I taste salt on my lips:
a thing that can preserve,
or make barren.
I raise my fists again
and begin to slam them
on the wooden barrier.
Knowing it is futile,
blood spraying,
I beat the door,
feeling the blows
on my body.,,