Red Cotton
by Michael Ladanyi

When we were young our days were skeletal,
the concrete-gray of metal framed
apartment steps, an empty
in-ground pool filled with thin

January air as frigid as any water ever was,
Around the corner, among
short cedars and squared hedges,
I waited, string in hand ready to pull

and drop a cardboard box, catch a
robin and salt its tail. I did not know
then that invisible blood littered
your trembling thighs like red cotton

muffling screams and tears; did not
know horrid whispers of "keep your
mouth shut or else," strangled your
small ears until they bled and became brittle,

withered, blue-cringing reasons to
damn yourself for many years.
Some days you said you were too old,
wished to die, the bitter,

agonizing footsteps in your doorway forcing
you to live, bone-stabbing pain slumping you,
pumping just enough sweaty breath
into your lungs to dawn another day.

I just wanted you to know, I did not know.

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