Kelly O'Brian

Seeing Red
 
Two and a half months
after the day with the van
and the torn clothes, the pain
and the man, I awake
with blood dried
on my thighs, my nightgown
sticks to me like an adhesive
that will never seal.
I can see the browned-red,
the street lamp outside my window
issuing a spotlight on the evidence.
The blood pours down my thighs
as the tears do from my face,
leaving tiny rivulets behind me,
a trail of elapsed time.
In the bathroom, after
the waves of cramps finally
subside, I glance behind me
and I swear I see a tiny baby
lying curved in the bend of
the toilet.
 

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal