Right now there is
an arm tearing
open along the map-
-ping of shattered glass
a window and skin
have both broken
wide onto the moment
and it has been appropriate-
-ly named cut.
The emergency room
doctor is a drunk.
He glares into the cut
and feels a sense
of homesickness. He misses
his mother and his first wife
and Peaches – not the fruit
but his childhood Beagle,
whose actual name was Dog
yet earned the name (Peaches)
by having an affinity for…Peaches.
“Fucking Peaches!” The Doctor sobs
uncontrollably into the cut as he shoelaces
the arm back together.
Detroit writer and poet Ian Brown currently resides in New York City where he is receiving an MFA in poetry from the New School. Author of 3 chap books and recipient of the 2009 Jim Cash Award in Poetry, his work can be found in such places as PANK Magazine and the Best American Poetry blog.
