A Poem for July who is Thinking of Leaving


Self Identification--

She said the bruises
were her own.
Sticky and vermilion in color;
a lovely black centered plum patch

stitched with the daintiest
yellow thread.

She said three years ago
during a sudden ice storm in February
she spent three days
inside her bedroom

embroidering her name
on the back of the scab.

She said she had faith like that.

Went three months
with her fingers
twisted into tiny steeples.
Believed in the Trinity.

Had once tried to staple psalms
to the backs of her eyelids.

And then there was the breathing
just breathing.
Sometimes two breaths at a time
Sometimes just one in the span where

four breaths should have taken place.
She said she was like that two weeks before

She attempted to devour the world.

She began with pinpricks
just above the ankle--
a splintered crimson to describe
line and horizon.

Said self-regeneration meant
chopping away the dead & then

coloring in the pieces
that were blank.
Filling the gaps with
skin & mud & mercury

& whatever else the wound
decided it could hold.

Then came the unwinding.

Tuesday morning she took to
the backs of her thighs
like her grandmother took to
grapevine twenty-five years ago;

Sliced at the root
twisted tendon into
silver studded snap
smeared charcoal into edge

Left a message
on her answering machine
screamed 'fire' yelled 'wound'
in one panic stricken breath

just in case the slabs
got too thick.

They said she was always digging deeper than necessary.

Sharpening & re-sharpening her teeth
for a few sanitary seconds
before the layers started to unfold.

They said she was like that.

Had not yet learned how to frostbite.

Broke beautifully but easily.

Especially under the static
of such a thing
as inevitable
as leaving.