My dad’s got part of his finger missing –
Reminder of a severed love.
And I never saw him impale his palms with nails
But I sat on the countertop
In the yellow curtained light
Whilst he crushed his ring with a flask.
Now when I reach out
And grip his hand in mine
It’s as naked and splintered
As a peeled clementine.
So if you ask why I think love is violence
Then I hope that’d tell you why.
Poem by Benjamin Bowers
Image by Adam Strong
Benjamin Bowers is a full-time student and amateur poet from the North-West of England.