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

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

It is the wound
that makes you
rise and shine.

That leaves you
staring out windows.
That leaves you

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.


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