I am very wounded. Honestly,
there is nothing I prefer more than wounded
as way of implying, truthfully, me.
No word is more expertly sanded
or skillfully rounded
Yes, it is a grand word, and I am not grand
Still I feel it suits me
Yes, it should be reserved for those who are crippled
Still, I am pinned beneath its thumb
Even when I am happy
conducting mock interviews with you
and misinterpreting your name
it is just that the wound is a talent,
a whip of ribbon,
as if our generals had decided that medals
only weigh down and burden
and we are to be rewarded instead
with cross-shaped dents,
maybe the removal of a limb
(to make us lighter, less dim)
and when I am unhappy
When you have built her a candlelit dinner
in the house I'm moving into
when my room is stripped of cloth of sound
and even the loft mouse pauses to ponder
his next move in a game of nim
the wound is a talon, tied to my waist
A coiled telephone, crackling in wonder
at my hip's pronounced disdain for him
I am quickest at parrotry
in the shower, where the wound
is skin of water, flayed to strips and open sores
I am quickest at conversation
alone with you, when the wound
is a hair stylist you're telling me of
who lives in the brightest street in the city
