UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
MATHER SCHNEIDER

The Toenail

I ran across the field in Arkansas
barefoot and blind
with the gasoline truth
of a family ripped apart
like skin
and by the blood vessel rage
of men and women.
I ran across the prickly pears and the scorpions
eight years old
as if a fire chased me.
Somehow running burned
off confusion
and soothed a budding anger,
but I didnít see the rock
and my big toeís nail
on my right foot slammed
into it, which didnít budge but bent
the toenail all
the way back, like a swinging door in
a western.
I was down, crying,
not knowing what for,
the source a spinning mystery,
the future bruised...
Nobody heard me
and the pain finally subsided
at about the same time I realized
crying wasnít going to help.
I got up and wandered
carefully home.
The toenail turned
blue, purple, brown, then fell off five
days later.
It grows crooked to this
day.









© 2004 - 2009 Underground Voices