This, then will cure me,
no, not that, an edge of knife
blade,
self-turned to pinch at wrist,
not slice, just tip in to test
resolve, not once,
twice to be certain,
I am too much
coward for whip-wounds,
self-inflicted scourges,
this, too, requires courage,
wind whipping at bare throat
sleeveless, tongue to ice
burn, braver than most,
cauterized at the raw stitch,
always, always the stubborn
yearn, a year-long sigh,
witch’s wish, itch, fingers
finally relenting to self-touch,
to moan, to rise, to cry,
to fall and all, all in too
soon repetition, a turning record,
an elegant scratching slide
scratch slide, needle,
at this, lover, at this
parting, widening, river
reaching its own mouth.
