Against My Best Judgment
In the field
By grandma’s house
We saw a nail -
Bent and rusty,
Sticking out
Of an abandoned board.
Under a feeble midday sun
We stood and wondered -
What would happen,
If we stepped on it?
You can’t just fake it -
I said.
Unless you step on it
With all your weight
How will you know
If it’d pierce through,
Or how red
Your blood would spill?\
And red mine spilled;
But yours was brown,
Like bourbon,
And your face unmoved;
And your pursed lips, cold
Like the dead stove
In grandma Rose’s
Poor-lit kitchen.
That’s where I last saw you:
Sitting downstairs,
With grandma Rose;
Drinking in silence
Amid empty bottles
By the stove gone cold.
Elena Corriero
April 2025