Sunday, January 29, 2006

for Rebecca

The knife is an odd tool
so unlike the needle, sutured shut.
When my father opens the animal
there is no blood, the body is a war--
invaded it holds on to what it owns.
Now there's a river. If I stand on one foot
my shoe will be a map, if I close my eyes
I will not understand. My father claims
you must count as you go, the heart,
the liver, even the tongue
because the body lies quietly.
And if I tell you now
I am the girl and somehow
the animal, will you let me find my way?
Prints are easy to decipher.
It's the sum of what's been taken
which remains unclear.

3 comments:

Radish King said...

I love this poem.

Dick Jones said...

I do too. Powerful & haunting.

early hours of sky said...

Thank you both.