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Bloodcount
By Paul Cameron Brown
My mind had almost died.
It had refused a game of tag on a common
with surly children and they steadfastly took revenge.
My fate like Blondin's walk across Niagara
saw cataracts looming large,
hiss & foam,
then visions of serpents,
farawy monsters &
inner tension of rocks opening.
The churned, brown water opened like a basket before me.
Maurading bubbles took on elephantine shapes,
my barrel creeked.
Faraway, the edge & drop yawned in indifferent harmony.
The brown walls of my fortress barrel became like palates
& sutures of my skull imprisoning the brain;
the trickle of invading water ever a reminder.
The close of the story?
Nothing. What is there to record after a river passes?
What remains of things unseen, of antelopes in flight?
The shroud of Monte Cristo tossed carelessly into sea
did not fall open to the touch but was knifed with rifle force.
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