Thorns

I pull the thorns out of the leg
the vine was wrapped around.
I bleed in dots that sting like
whiskey shots, but worse
and not nearly as intoxicating.
I leave the bloody vine
where it lays and make my way
across the empty field
where the grass is long and combed
by the wind that animates it.
I check the crumbling barn
for any stowaways even though
it isn’t moving anywhere.
There are none, just an empty
pizza box and a forty ounce glass
bottle without a label.
The barbed wire fences can be
pulled apart and slid through.
I do this before the short
jog to the house.
The scent of rusted metal
doesn’t leave my hands
even after I’ve washed them.
I sit on the back porch
and put my leg up on a wicker
table and pour shots two at a time.
One for me followed by one for my leg.
The liquor covers my wounds
seeping in and replacing all my lost blood,
and for one evening in the summer
I am drunk on being sure I am alone.

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