by Norman Klein
That’s what he called me that morning,
as my eyes opened, and both of us saw
the kid lying there bloody, smaller
than a bird, smaller enough to flush
it down, then forgive my husband when
he threw me over his shoulder to get me
to the hospital, where I locked myself into
in my bathroom still dripping, needing to
to be clean for the rest of my guilty life.
Norman Klein is an Iowa MFA who has published 12 poems in the last 12 months. He has also edited for Ploughshares while teaching at Simmons College then UMass Boston., That said, he currently lives and writes in the woods of New Hampshire.