Retract

if i arch my back, just so

you will hear the gutteral crack

of ribs splaying

and thunder peal

confined to a distant canyon

 

observe the blood rivulet flow

tinted crimson

from rhodonite glow

 

did you think of yourself as some indelible mark on my being?

how easily I’ve erased your ochred pigments

from my crumbled cave walls

 

Lascaux?

indeed no

 

you were only the sharpest point of the trident

ending some turgid trilogy of torment

 

so stand back

drop the Finochietto*

little blood, no gore

though you expected more

your surgical precision

met with

phlegmatic derision

 

 

*a type of surgical retractor designed to separate ribs in chest surgery. Named after Argentinian surgeon Enrique Finochietto

Blood Letting

it began the day we met

although that day we refuse to mark in time

for you say you were ever mine

unnoticed at first

tender words tumbled

settling on leaves, crumbled

kicked by gleeful children

easily buried

as common patois

as the weeks passed

my heart passively filled

and words emptied

in systematic blood letting

a ritual even Galen would deem

surprisingly extreme

with flooding gush

from sharpened fleam

so when i say i’m lost for words

i mean my words are lost from me

my exsanguinated self

in speechless stirrings

stutters

to a final, single, syllable

till here, so render me

your silent soliloquy

………………………………….

Galen of Pergamum (129-200 AD) was a proponent of the practice of bloodletting. Disease was thought of as an imbalance of the four “humors” : blood, phlegm, black bile; yellow bile. Declaring blood as the most dominant humor, bloodletting was often the gory answer!

Fleam: bloodletting implement with multiple blades of different sizes folded into a case.

What I see

the story, largely untold

in hollow eyes, dare i behold ?

as we pass in the street

at a common hour

them two

and i

an unwilling wallflower

 

this is the telling of averted gaze

sharp glimpses, in acid haze

where passion once dared to tread

it’s distant echo, a severed thread

 

this is the telling of hope emaciated

stumbling forward, duty bound

finger mark bruises at cuff link edge

a destiny soured, scarred, uncrowned

 

this is the telling

of closed doors, midnight yelling

glass shards of anguish there dwelling

 

my wallflower imagination

ever trembling

 

Thanks to S.G for this challenge …to write about a ¬†random topic: “a couple I saw on my way home from work.” Much harder to complete than I had originally thought. And the more I imagined them, the more dark the writing became.