Dripping Red

The tree in front of my house drips leaves

So red they’re almost purple, hanging

Low like they’re filled with the juice of a ripe

Plum, and ready to drop to the ground

With a fat thud.

 

A thud, like the sound of a bottle,

Thick glass tumbling off the table and not

Breaking. It rolls across the hardwood,

Waking the dog, who jumps up in fright,

Nails scratching the floor.

 

A scratch, etched deep into my arm, from

Shoulder to elbow, from where mom tried to

Grab me as I pushed past her naked, staggering

Bulk. It hurt, but I didn’t look. I ran outside, into

The dawn, and only then noticed

 

Blood, dripping down my arm, dripping red,

Like the wine from her lips at dinner, at breakfast.

I trip over my own feet, but keep moving up the hill,

To stand with the other kids. I turn around and can see

That tree, sighing and shaking, from the bus stop.