Your Beautiful Wound, Really

 

It comes of having
an umbilical cord—
out of nowhere,

out of the forever
that locks the soul
and throws the key

into one abyss or
another.

It turns us to Grendels
on the heath, howling
at the dark, complaining

of the local musicians.
It looks like boredom
sometimes; sometimes

despair, sometimes
voiceless, panicked
terror—or all—it’s

hard to tell when
you aren’t
breathing.

It is the wound
that makes you
rise and shine.

That leaves you
staring out windows.
That leaves you

spelunking.
That corners
your songs.

It’s the rip in
the fabric of
your only

space and time.
It comes of belly
buttons and leaves

never. It’s what
you’re holding in
every song.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s