grady mcshane



Saturday Morning Hurt

rained all night on that forest.
wasn’t a dry spot anywhere.
her corpse wrapped in black trash bags
and silver duct tape,
hung from a tree like a giant dark cocoon.
raccoons had nibbled the right thumb
(the only exposed flesh)
down to bone, and left the fingernail in
the pine needles below.
she might have been raped
(hard to tell with as much rough
sex as she normally had),
she had been beaten unrecognizable
with a tire iron,
and someone put make up on her
swollen face post mortem.

someone’s little girl,
someone’s older sister,
someone’s best friend...

I watched the Saturday Morning
News with twisted guts
and tearing eyes.
especially when a friend said,
“That’s what happens when you’re
a fucking hooker.”
a sharp burr caught my throat,
I said nothing.
damning my silence,
I wished I was a better

I still do.

Grady McShane, 32, lives in a tiny log cabin in the woods of rural Texas, USA. He writes. He's a strange person who is not liked by most, which suits him fine, because most people are horrible. He doesn't want to be rich or famous, but does long to have an awkward conversation with the world through his writing. He has been published in a few e-zines.


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