woundlicker, a poem

dead skin sundering

shed it like a bird

my veins precipitate

tracing creeks down my wrist

seeing red, yet I laugh and seek more

living in the metalli­c scent

it pleads for mercy

but something's got to give

I won't stop

until I am tattooed with failures

let the blood wade around my arm

droplets like skimming fishes

if no one will avenge those who I've hurt,

I'll do it myself; I'll show me

tell everyone you know what I am

while I gush and drown one room over

Valerie Gitlow

260125