something else hidden in the muscles
Ruth Stone, “The Wound” from Simplicity
of the face, something the throat wanted to say.
Today everything but the soreness from lifting you the rawness in my throat quarrels captured and salty tears everything but triaging our afflictions dressing words and what is not there silence and no quick cures unknowns romance here except this Tomorrow is everything but alienation your rights and rites practiced skills everything but my words once in allodium i stay to suture harm stitches say its my fault, too (& maybe it is) this the unraveling of that once which opened festers repaired itself unto today everything except dusty ghosts & empty bandage wrappers the world of gain and political correctness true to tradition everything but what you ask of my days and I ask of my days yesterday i plunged into trauma headlong and wounds became everything but scars