Poetry

It was a severed finger 
in an envelope, 
which wrote the letter 
of consent. 
 
Oh, my father 
I am still crying 
with loss of words 
and figures. 
 
Past the hills 
I sent the secret of 
my poems which did not tell 
me the name of knife- 
 
that was put in my back 
by my unknown 
brothers of shame. I will 
now bleed all life. 
 
It was only an 
apology. I will still 
walk with my toes drawing 
the stripes of welts.