The Needle’s Edge By Nathan Tompkins

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​The Needle’s Edge

My cousin had light brown curls, dimples
so deep, they captured unwary girls
if they did not watch their footing.

He played football,
clutched that damned ball
as he ran down the field
mud clung to his cleats,
while he pounded his legs to the turf
to reach those white goalposts.

When they found him that morning
in Spokane beaten, bruised, bloodied.

I remembered….

He had light brown curls, dimples
so deep, they captured unwary girls
before he found his jagged comfort
in the hollow point of a needle’s edge.

When I saw his mom that Christmas,
I held her as she quaked in my arms,.
I held her as her tears dampened my shirt
Then, we separated, I watched her wipe
her red eyes with a white kleenex.

In the end the cops did nothing.
In the end, they disregarded the bruises
on his face, on his body, on his brain.
They claimed the blood splatter on the wall
was from shoving poison into his withered veins,

So his murder was ruled an overdose.

He was just another dead needle freak.
Who cares if one heroin addict kills another?
But you know….someone always does.

Even junkies have mothers.
who will always remember…

​

Bio: Nathan Tompkins is a writer living in Portland, Oregon though his heart will always be in his native North Idaho.  His works have appeared in many publications including Drunk Monkeys, Five2One, NonBinary Review, and Windfall A Journal of Poetry of Place.  He's the author of five chapbooks, the latest of which is Uncomfortable Adventures.

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