Day Twenty-Eight: ‘Oil Spill’

April 29, 2013

I owe you three more poems but can’t deliver.

The appendix in my hand has just ruptured

a vulgar stain of ink, which now drips sludge

upon my outfit and smears on the page.

Suppose I try to trace some lines before

the mess all dries — the poem forever printed

as a dank tattoo, a generous mess. But I won’t.

Never will a pair of eyes look noble

on my pithy oil spill and feel released,

for I have already died, am already dead.

A body cannot fathom the toxicity

of spoiled ink tossed carelessly until

the liquid, like wet concrete, solidifies

and kills the nocturnes your heart hides inside.

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