Snow buries my little girl boots and father’s casket but not his sins or secrets because those live in me, like worms.
His new wife’s kiss leaves a scarlet smudge on the frost, my cheek, the varnished wood. At night I kneel and knead the jagged word, trembling in my hands.
Len Kuntz
“At night I kneel and knead the jagged word, trembling in my hands.” – great line
I get the sense of sorrow and confusion from reading this piece. Hey, but I’ve been wrong many other times.