Just a Flesh Wound

 
 

As the blood from the cut

trickles down the right side of my palm

it finds the etched lines of my handprint,

 

discovers them open like dry creek beds

and rides them like streams and

tributaries where they join forces

 

and forge a blood river down the

prominent groove that runs

like a crescent from above my thumb to

the shore line of my wrist;

 

and just past those faint carvings

the underside of my forearm is smooth

as slate and does not divert the flow

anywhere but straight down toward my elbow.

 

I want to see how long it takes the spring

to clot and close its mouth, how long it takes

a wound to say enough,

 

how long an offense will pride itself open,

how long it takes for an artery to

make amends with its cover.

 

--rLp--