Danny Gentile #35 - The Wound

The Wound

If night rips its wound, you shall know it.

Not by the pain, because that you have

been nurturing, letting it ribbon-up from

inside to glide from your throat in

a lost call. No, not by the pain and

its sinew of ribbon. Not by the call

which is a begging-after. You shall

break it out from memory, the deepest

of wounds that takes so much to gouge

forward. This is the wound now cutting

from the inside and marking the closed-

in globe as its target. It is simple to reach

out and penetrate the light with every

secret of betrayal or redemption. It is

not so simple to guide away from the

filament the generation of guilt that

would hive there. Lean in and touch

me with generosity, for perhaps that is

the suture which I crave. Lean in and

count every aching splinter and the wound

may deepen, to well-up and seep the

latent knowledge you would have me find.

An egg shatters in my heart and it's flow

is grit and echo. Once this would have

externalised but now it eases through me

to feed the many shapes from which I learn.

The wound is inflamed sometimes, and

sometimes it is clean, like a pen-line across

the skin; rough-looking. I stretch my skin

toward the light bulb and it looks older.

I notice grey in my hair and know the many

leavings from here. Sometimes the egg is all

I have, and that, shattered, unnerving thing

bleeds through every vein until the pain

is everything. I wish for it gone then reach

through understanding toward a word

at the edge of being spoken. This is

what I learn. This is a translucence to

penetrate the moment and bring it to

where, for all its brevity, it is still a secret

that in some way is revealed. Channelled.

Anchored somewhere. But not in a wound.