The world flies by as a
cold memory
finds me.
Very sharp
the knife in my abdomen–
perfect cuts–
the blade shouldn’t miss.
Cold memory’s held
in the body
while the mind slept.
While I drifted
there were whispers of care
and clear direction.
The mistakes I make today,
are not life and death.
Comforting was the day I found
the pieces of my hair
covering your heart.
The rhythm was my first,
I see water and the flood
of rain, wash down my skin.
Control now is nothing
like the knife
removing disease.
So much is still here.
Green mask, removing an interior pocket of life,
a little home on the inside.
I put my hand on the place from
where it ripped away
swollen and ruptured and
onto a little tin stand.
Bricks and stitches remain
moving the traces of my day.
It stored the good stuff they say.
I opened my eyes,
they worked but my lungs would not.
My face was replaced by a mask,
blow, suck, oxygenate!
What a fate.
Years later my hand rests on the place
somewhere that knife is still the same,
but the scars have faded.
And inside the pain finds its way
looking for the home
where the good guys used to live.