Friday, March 11, 2011

Bound: September 19, 1981

A vertical incision, latex fingers fishing in
the day a million gathered to hear sittin’ in the railway station
two brothers reunite in a New York park.
Spinal drugs flooded cold
silver between us, no longer your body my destination
calling, did they change
my mind—a breech
of contract with Universe—for a poet
second thoughts about planet Earth
I turned half-circle
before steel dragged its heel, skidded through
the muscles you held me in an endless dream.

The curtain between us so you didn’t see
the mess they’d made, the moment of me
half-in/half-out of your body, before they raised
me dangling in fluorescence, drugged and singing home, where
fierce, I fish-out-of-water shook.
Strange hands fondled, beneath my nails
your was-blue washed clean
and wrapped me.

The deliverance: out of home; into your arms’ sudden perfect;
little time to recall the difference, the bleeding over that I long to be
when the Latching sets in, magnetite-
devotee, I swallowed the formula, dulled shades of mediocrity
through the plastic tip, the new plural
never full-
made, we slept through
your tubes tied, knotted off
the possibility of a threesome ("I only wanted you") we slept bound
as they sewed you back together—
the gut-mouth they’d made—spilled,
stitched up to not-talk, silently, not to
ever say more than one, longitudinal scar, homeward.

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