March 18, 2007

I crushed your fingertip in my door;
you were game then: let’s take a picture
of the bruise.
Your dark shell
explodes into yellow, magenta. A mangle of friendly fire.

You kept the photo
like a warning. I would find it
in the drawer with the stamps,
under piles of your writing or
marking the heave of a page
in a heavy tome.

I notice you have no scars
wonder if you are an immortal,
a daydream, a modern Blodeuwydd
curved from polymers
themselves made from the petrol
that once fueled my howls for colour.

I stopped finding the picture,
and soon after that you stopped daring me
to steal us milk bottles at dawn, or
put my hand between your legs
on train journeys. You would observe me

as if I was a scab you once enjoyed picking.
The day you told me about him, I called you
all the names, breathed them slowly to you,
like bloody petals. You smiled,
sickeningly wise and said you must know
you can’t hurt me.


2 Responses to “hurt”

  1. Dave Bonta said

    Oh good, there *are* good poets on! (The Poetry tag pages are such a morass.)

  2. Thankyou so much. I also recommend the talented artists and poets on my blogroll – the rather oblique heading is ‘songs that set’ and they can be found at the bottom of the page.


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