The Wound and The Bow

 

Such glistening beauty

in the texture

of the necessary

blistering scab;

the thick protective crust

            must be allowed rest

to heal into reticent scar.

            But how inviting it is

to split memory’s skin—

            cracking oneself open,

seduced by the siren again

what stench festers inside

these hands as wicked quietude?

            while delirious I

frustrate the silence

and muscle my stain into song.