For Emily
How wild this flesh can be so cut open,
my thigh gouged out in scapular divot,
and that I don’t exsanguinate nor begin
to right away wilt with necrotic rot.
How wild a wound can bloom red-eyed
at the external world as internal witness
to sun, to rain, the natural shocks. Debride
me, surgeons, open me up as wide as a rose.
Make carbuncles breathe periwinkle
through this my gape. Invade the open gate
and snip me clean with silvered scissors. Twinkle
your light into my leg. Look for a hurt
too wildfire to whittle. Stuff me with gauze.
Then needle me numb so I won’t feel the flies.
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