The Truth About Tigers

A bruise soon forgets its fist—
the pick’s cry, swallowed whole.
Absence tunnels through the quiet,
humming a melody half-remembered.

Bliss, if it exists,
might be the assassin of agony—
a shadow moving swift
beneath a temple-dark sky-of-mind.

When pain dissolves, a ghost is born—
the whisper-thin trace
of a breath-dulled blade
caught behind splintered ribs.

Every joy steals from ache,
and borrowed light burns bright enough
to sharpen edges left behind— 

leaving only the faint shape
of what you once called yours.

This poem was first published in The Shore, Issue 25 – Spring 2025.
I’m grateful to the editors for including this piece.