The Paradox: on Aching
Of
course it doesn’t start out this way,
pain
in salt-stiff-salt-strong knots, in the muscle
then
bone of pelvis, the electric search for a spot
it
can curl into and lathe a name for itself.
Consider:
bark, when stripped, is an idle
dog
in the slim shade of a bare oak root at two
in
the afternoon. Her throb is in the meat
of
her jowl, her twitch when a hand gets magnet
close,
enough to suck it down or shove it completely
away. Both with a growl. Both with teeth.
She’s
at the length of the chain, brained
(nearly)
for the stain near the door, the late
key,
the wait, the wait, hold it hold it but finally,
in
the end it spills out pinched and dry, the sulfur
the
kilned salt of pain. Not her fault. She wasn’t
the
one as went away. So shit on you. Shit.
On.
You. If you want to place blame, get the hell out.
If
you don’t, touch the dog. She’s not
asleep.
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