This story begins with blood,
or the running from it –

chased by my brother
over slippery floorboards
before falling onto a nail –

averting eyes on a park bench
while his nose gushed red slugs –

hearing my mum’s warning
that a glinting razor wouldn’t hurt
and, after my fingers opened,
terror of realising she was right –

fainting during a biology lesson
and knowing the only way
to shed the shame
would be transfusing myself in
another school –

thinking, after I banged my head in
a hardware store,
I didn’t want to turn out like dad
who tried to distract me
as he bundled tissues against my scalp –

sucking a paper cut
I got from my uncle’s betting slip, tasting
the tang of copper coins
he counted out to feed us –

watching a drone slice my hand numb
as I tried to impress my future wife by
plucking it from the sky –

my chapters are defined by
the times I am struck

when I remember
in the shock before it gathers I
am a reservoir
full to throbbing brim,
only ever a ripple away
from returning to my source.

 

*
From Magma 91, In The Flesh 

 

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