cardinal gash
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
when I sealed the cuts
I missed something.
.
Some shrapnel. Some
mutant, monstrous, zygote.
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.
.