It occurs to me that I am happy. Just how this condition has come about

I do not know; nor do I care to know... Some mirrors and trapdoors must be
hallowed, lest they slip away into the light: bleached bones for spells,

mangy hare for top hat and silk. It frightens me: this feeling -if that is what
this is- habitually so transient, so ephemeral, like the plunge of a
needle, hollow tooth nestled beneath the dermis. It is in my blood, sanguine waves
stirring salt and iron, dyeing my flesh, colouring my vision. And so,
I must live in terror of you. Though I will it with all that is in me, heart and guts

and sinew, bundled fingers and curled toes, my body knows the truth.

The throbbing muscle at the core of me, clenches fleshy fingers across

the flow, vainly holding what must surely go. And so, I must live in terror

of you, my love.

08/11/2008

Posted on 08/12/2008
Copyright © 2024 D. James McKee