Twenty little fingers soiled,
Before we even started with
Sending drops of glass
Towards their destination.
You dug a hole just big enough
To press your little fist
Snug into the ground.
Just like dry blood, you said.
I told you not to mind the red clay
Stuck behind your fingernails.
I scrapped it off, the clay,
And washed it off my hands,
And rinsed my fingers cold,
And look at pearly crescents gleaming.
And I see blood soaked hands,
And never mind the red clay now.
© jsmorgane (Nov 2004)