Puncture Wound

I say my words are forced and water-bland
You laugh and say that water fosters life
I yell and drive my pencil through my hand
You sound just like my god-damned, fucking wife!
I feel the pencil throbbing in my palm
And suddenly a line occurs to me
I don’t know where you’ve gone but I am calm
And how can I be calm so suddenly
I turn my wrist; the pencil is a mast
Protruding from a raw stigmata hole
The words come to me easily at last
As if they were escaping from my soul
But irony flows easier than words
And all my lines by blood are now obscured

Leave a Reply