with a sense of lingering
you didn't need surgery. it was a flesh wound
of sorts, a swollen middle finger. who jammed it
up, into what? last time it was a knife wound,
someone tried to slash tires.
i'm not going to name names.
today the thumb has a thorn
or something irritatingly invisible. i call it
:the reason for the (blank):
blank is defined as any of the following:
drink, sex, longing, tears, food, internet,
run around the block, count to a hundred fears
backwards, this book or that, online dating,
weed smoke, pill down, treadmill, incite a fight.
the body gets buzzed, distracted. i remember
cigarettes, how they felt when i was hooked:
an outlet for unparalleled anger,
a life jacket drowning me. inhale,
let it all out.
it's not easy to pull the blinds.
i have strange curtains that don't block
public pains. at times i wait
guarded, outlining shapes, glancing inward.
have i inhabited this naked world,
this two-way mirror?
my hands could be useful, yet they remain
only the fine fur of my best cat
friend knows their true current value,
the going rate on today's market.
i am trading in purrs.
which of these human senses is most starved?
i ask repeatedly.
the view and shudder of depth i long to match?
the depth of voice i can echo (towards silence)?
that whole taste, unencumbered & unfurled?
that complex smell when face meets face, inhale?
or is it simply the abandon of
skin, hands, skin?