Cento No. 9

Ariel in Black

I live here--

in a cell--

a sort of

grave--

a panic--

of

skin--

and

blood--

and

bone--

shut

as a seashell--

freakish--

beautiful--

obscene--

black

over blue--

stubbornly hanging on to

myself

by the roots of my hair.

I am nude as a chicken neck--

small--

shrunk--

I am ill--

a

Homunculus--

an

unstrung puppet--

dying to fly.

I am terrified by this dark thing,

flapping and sucking,

winding and twining,

stuck

in my

body--

it is a heart.

All day, I feel its

turnings, its malignity,

its snaky acids kiss

my

blue veins--

I taste

blood--

warm and salt--

I taste

my selves dissolving--

I cannot run.

I cannot

unpeel

from this 

suit--

these

years.

I cannot undo myself.

I am still raw--

remembering

the pain

of wars, wars, wars.

I am

stuck,

eyeing 

my scars,

hearing

my

crackling.

I am 

stuck--

starless and fatherless--

black

and

blackening.

 

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