Anger, a rash from the sumac’s poison,
painful and distracting from any peace of mind.
Our fingernails dig epidermic trenches on
an all-too familiar battleground that stings
of mustard gas and iodine.
Citizens sell ticker tape and bonds;
such ferocious love of a dying profession.
Death sweeps down the wedding aisle,
her hair tied back in a borrowed bonnet.
The guests shift uncomfortably
in their wooden pews: they want to object,
but they each hold their respective breaths.
Death never seemed so lovely.

Misery, a sore inside a gum or cheek,
his teeth gnawing to and from.
They wonder if the wound has healed,
knowing that it hasn’t. Like an apologetic
husband bursting to his bleeding wife’s side,
guilt chases rage from his crying voice;
the tongue keeps tearing at cankerous holes,
sores that taste of vinegar and Epsom.
The best remedy: to rinse with time,
but tragic tunes stitch open wounds,
and minor chords know how pain feels.

About The Author

Regis Louis is currently studying English at Kent State University. When he is not laboring over his poems, you can find him working at the Wick Poetry Center. He believes that it is his duty as a poet to use his writing as not only creative relief for himself but also as an opportunity to share his understanding of human life with others. He thanks you for reading his words.

Contents

Tearing at Sores

About The Author