Poetry By Megan Feehley

Chris Bee CC




Clot
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When I gift you my hands, wrapped in the Sunday paper

I do not think of my dad’s hand over mine, 

his index finger shielding me from the trigger 

when we aimed that old revolver at a milk jug 

and he said this is the weight of it

All I knew was the blood in my ears and the itch 

to use that metal hook to scrape the dirt out from under my nails.

The memory of my mom’s drumming heart, which only ever said run

is stuck somewhere behind my teeth 

when I let you feel around in the dark of my ribcage 

your knuckles snagging on tangles of veins and nerves

It barely hurts when you, still reeling from it all, choke on the word love, 

while it leaks out of your eyes and onto the floor

You have your own problems to worry about, like where all this blood came from 

and why there’s writing on the walls

I hope that if I keep kissing you, if I don’t let you come up for air,

if I dissect your heart while you sleep, that I’ll be forgiven 
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for forgetting the weight of it 

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Megan Feehley is a writer and poet from San Diego, CA. She has a BA in English and enjoys reading stories that feel like poking at exposed nerves. Megan's work can be seen in Spare Parts Literary Magazine, Black Hare Press, and Livina Press.