Winter of My Discomfort, 12.07.06

Touch to the tender to
the white wild spaces between
blue and sky
bone structure under blood
unease of breath, bile,
the fundamental fragility
of flesh...

...a litany of fractures,
of bridges broken and burned
in this body, this temple,
this village of rough words and ripe,
this city of thought and fire.
I’m not coming apart-
just coming unglued, a little.
But I don’t know it, not really.

Tender to the touch to
the skin fevered, the sleeplessness,
blood martyred to sterile phials
bones hidden and revealed by light
supplicant to the secrets of my rind-
no howling aloud, no whimpered hallucinations:
just the bravery of my bones, the honesty of my blood.

Can’t rest, won’t rest, left to ruminate
on the sins of my muscles, the secrets of my organs.

The doctor is my priest,
reading the scripture of my skin,
the pronouncements from my heart,
the whispered revelations from my lungs;
no reading of my entrails...

...the inevitable wreck of time.
Not even 30; not even 29.
Poisons, potions, and pills:
these are my communion. Amen.

---
MWL