Talk to the wound like it’s a microphone
or just another pair of lips,
parched from words it had to say
(but couldn’t, for lack of ears.)
Praise it as the line crossed for the first time
two sacs of chemicals and feathers,
two colliding stardust vessels
on an impenetrable night,
visibility reduced to a chain of rusted yellow light.
Kiss it only when completely compelled to,
which is to say empty
enough to believe it can fill you.
the only way
to have a body,
and a body’s
only meant to be a gate into the earth.
Tell the wound you’re sorry,
enter it completely,
await another birth.