by Cody Clarke

I can make a fist
and when I do my hand looks normal
and more so the harder I squeeze
but then the itch sets in
and I must release

The red rushes back
all across the back of my hand
in puffy splotches
like little Europes
to match the Asias down my arms

I am in hell
but looking in the mirror
and seeing Bukowski’s face
makes me smile

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Hives

  1. slpmartin says:

    Rather liked this poem of yours …thanks for sharing it.

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