February 9th: On the Beauty of Wounds

9^th: On the Beauty of Wounds

“It gets to be an old friend, a wound.  Of course,

it troubles you from time to time, but I’ve lived

with it so long.  It must’ve happened when I

was a child.”

                                                The Unconsoled

                                                Kazuo Ishiguro

But the poet, though, he’s talking about lilacs

how on the edge end of snow they'll open,

how, and this is me now, each knuckle

splits and each wooden fingertip, the warm

urge to open to the broad, I-don’t-give -

a-damn-who-sees-me world, and they do

it, they do it anywhere they are.  And who

are we while they are doing it but people

who are doing it too only under our coats,

absolutely under our coats, our winters we

sew and sow beneath the course spun wool

beneath the fists of feathers spread thin

in squares and stitched in sleeves in pockets

in broad backs and accommodating fronts we

zip to the neck to brace ourselves for the storm

because we know it’s coming we may be ready

or we may be predicting but for now we

wait like the lilacs wait and what I want

to know is does it hurt them the way it hurts me

to split to be split to have no say in the matter

but only respond to the warm finger of spring

to run up and down our roots to shiver us

under our skirts to have no choice but to flood

with blood to reach up to it come April or May

and tight enough no more open each fist

into the lips of a random passerby to give it

to anyone who happens up to anyone who

ignores to anyone who, scissors and basket, run

to the easiest crotch and cut on a bias

and none too soon soothe us warm and throw

(in a choke we recompose) us in a brief pane

a square of light we follow - o - flower - o -

branch - o - bush to your root it's you who - all summer

will hide maybe with pride that place

she came to with her blades and lifted

you up and whispering cut you and thumbed

the bit of clear sap and licked it and took

the best of you away--yes all summer under

your canopy you’ll let the wind blow over you

and sometimes if it’s right and no one’s happening

by you’ll part your leaves enough, just enough,

in the sun or the rain, it doesn’t matter, to be

sure of the scar.