A poet’s words are strips of his hide, hung out to dry.
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Words are pain
peeled in elegant threads
like skin
from off the body,
stitched into meaning.
I pull this elegy,
this heartache,
this child,
this heartache in bloody pieces -
align it just so,
pruning it where needed
and sign my name.
The loss is obvious then.
The parts that used to be me
hung out to dry,
word-jerky
in the digital breeze.
Hoping beyond hope
that discerning eyes
and open hearts
will see them as they are -
pieces of my soul,
my hide,
the road curling out behind me
that blistered me
in the walking of it.
All I ask:
Won’t you take the time
to listen,
to translate,
just as augerists decided
meaning in the guts
of the sacrificed?
Let me scar
before I must begin
tearing away at myself again.
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