MEDIUM RARE by Patti Martin

 

 

Here's a poem by a Crone-friend, just turned 70, who has occasionally lived a Blood On The Tracks kind of life. I thought this poem expressed a mood we may all be familiar with, come 2:30 a.m.

 

 

The steak knife

Slips across the grain

Like the surgeon’s scalpel.

 

The meat gives way,

And pale blood flows

In rivulets from the red, cool center

Of perfect rare,

Onto cool porcelain.

 

I press my lips to

The warm, rich flow

And taste only

Cold ashes

And regret.

 

 

 

                                                ~ Patricia A. Martin