I like to think that bitterroots blossomed
from his tears and blood,
that their pink petals wrapped around his body
and lifted it to the sky,
and not that he limped
into the emergency room alone,
or that his father said it wasn’t a hate-crime
because he was drunk,
not that when I trace the metal plates
around his eye in bed,
he doesn’t feel it.
Originally from Michigan, Trenton Pollard has worked as a welder, graphic designer, massage therapist, and political organizer. His work has been published in The Chicago Quarterly Review, Paper Nautilus, Assaracus, The Cossack Review, Verdad, Codex Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in New York City.
This poem is not previously published.