Wound
Cast a long line to the far side of my wound,
let it fall dead upon the dirty floor.
There will be a tug soon—and a dim figure
heaving with a back laden with heavy stones.
See—when I close my eyes and think of the tip
of my nose, I can smell death in the rose bushes.
There, bees are stuffing warm hexagons
with the spring honey of mad youth, bittersweet
in its withering. Soon, small wings will sprout
from wax, slick skin from beneath the black scab
of my ancient wound. Flush scar tissue
shall be my whitewashed page. I will unsheath
my finger bone from its inky joint and get to work,
in sweat and faith and marrow.
The Barn Door
All day long they’ve been stamping
their sawdust stalls black
in the hazy, dust-ridden corner
of my periphery.
A storm is coming,
I know it by the rolling of their heads;
they, by the dampness of their crests and tails,
the weight of their coarse hair in clumps—
clinging about their necks,
thighs, and hocks.
To them, my slow hammer blows must seem
like echoes of distant thunderclaps
wafting through the longleafs,
My hacksaw’s serrated teeth
across half-inch plywood sheets
and two-by-fours
like lightning bolts flaying
whole sides of trunks
near-clean of bark.
Tonight, neither solid squalls
nor bullish rain will enter
between the bare bones
of our old, crumbling barn door,
not if I can help it.
Artwork Courtesy of our featured Artist Hassan Zahreddine
