cardinal gash
On this ground, sweet
fruits half-eaten turn sour,
and I stomp out the stench.
I was young. I was afraid. I fought, and still
I could not avoid the opening.
The universe gripped and pried
until my curled form lay flat,
belly up.
Touch me then, in softness.
There’s nothing like it. Hypnotic.
Draw your fingers down my spine
until I sleep.
How sweet a dream. His hands were
so gentle, I didn’t realize they
held a knife until I saw
blood, red and weeping.
What else matters?
The licking of the wound?
The sutures? The bandages
glued in place? Probably
my dedication
to my own medicine. Like
a limping dog snarling
at touch. Resting,
resting, resting, until
it can move again.
What’s possible
always seems
like it will be enough, but
It wasn't.
I missed something.
A piece of shrapnel, or
a zygote: mutant and monstrous.
Something too buried
to see, and therefore
too buried to kill.
Feel it itch now,
a decade later,
finally having completed
its outward migration.
It knocks at the surface. It
tears at scar tissue. It
climbs from my skin like
bile up the esophagus.