Thursday, December 24, 2015

You use your hands like your mother

The memory I can not place, can't finger with my beautiful
hands, a man once said, you use your hands
like your mother, took years to understand my hands used
to pick, pick on self, on skin--
musician I create silence, sensation
to the microscipic tune of picked raw
picked liquid-red.

My wife gloves me to break
me as though I were a horse unridden,

a child again-- the discomfort of clothes
scratched on skin till I can go on
without a body I've never liked
a barrier between me and my naked
touching of the world. He was right,

like your mother in that silent picking
way I've watched her pick off bites
till the scab and bleed, re-scab, re-bleed--
finger-dance she's done
without thought of pain (the held-note
she holds to in the background)
those days sky is wholey grey--
grey, coupled with Silence that bears,
presses out amplified Ache
she closes her eyes to
kick into a swallowing sky.

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