I unsheath the telescoping rod
from the vein in my left arm
connecting my ring finger
to the heart
and pierce the stale air
of dwelling in this too-small space
atop the low mountain ridge,
I scream, a hawk echoes me and
I determine to open it up,
as a surgeon might do,
and bleed out the rest of the
swollen lust built up
from impossible dreams
and so many bruised misentries
stain like scar tissue,
there is no feeling in this area
that the immune system
is ill-equipped to treat
As the resistance is overkill,
homeostasis is not a residential zone.
The needle-tip inserts alternate forms
of nourishment and necessity,
only meant to keep the heart
beating me up and down
like a closed fist
striking empty chambers.
Painting by Hans Dahl (1849-1937) 'On the mountaintop' date unknown, in Public Domain.
_(14730393436).jpg)
