Friday, September 22, 2017


There are clinical terms
That I could use
To describe the things I am feeling
Just like you can take a pin
And slide it through the flesh
Of an insect, an animal
And mount it on a board
Take a clean white paper
And carefully label it
Preserve it under glass
A stagnant moment in time
Freed from context
And easily digestible

I've seen scorpions in resin
Dangling from leather cords
A decorative motif
To dress the necks
Of rebellious youths
But like the skulls on leather jackets
Or in baroque paintings
They are only a reminder
The suggested recollection
Of the existence of poison
It will never instill a shuddering panic
As would a hard dry carapace
The feel of parchment paper husks
Shifting against the softness
Of a woman’s breast
A coiled tail
Above a beating heart

So while I would gladly provide
Something clean and neat
With thick cardstock
And leveled corners
Bathed under clear slick gloss
I simply have no words
That equal the weight on my chest
This pressure against my form
And a shifting against myself
And frankly I am adverse
To the feeling of pins

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