Arts + Scene » Poetry




When the axe slipped this morning
I went quickly inside
Washed away the blood to see the damage
And studied the back of my hand

It was less familiar than I thought
There was this expectation: its geography as
Familiar as a joke told thin
A line so memorized it's lost its meaning

Only looking at the territory
Surveying the forest of fine hairs
The veinous hills and two freckles pointing north
I felt as if I had just awakened

Felt as if the hand I turned this way toward the light
Was something magical in its pain
And as I placed the bandage over the wound
I felt the tug of sails unfurling

And recognized where the edge of the world began


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