Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Poetry


By Rachel Shaw

It’s still him, you know.
He didn’t shed his sins after you told him
that you can forgive but not forget.

That hand he’s holding you with is the same hand
that slapped your daughter.

The hand giving you roses is the same hand
that drew blood from her flesh
to match her tear stained cheeks
and the color of the blossoms.

He has hurt this family in more ways than you
will ever know.
But you let him back.

Wouldn’t you rather be given daisies?
After all–they don’t have thorns.