Musings

In search of pain
he cuts off her hands,
places them atop each other on the mantle,
a gesture of patience
yet, she notices an occasional twitch,
fingertips itching to get down,
thumb through subversive literature.

“How small,” he muses,
“like the hands in cumming’s poem.”
“Yes, I love that poem too,” she gushes,
wipes away his tears,
grateful he can feel her pain –
the sting of an open wound.
In return, she leaves his face
stained with the fruits of his labour.

She senses her Muse approaching,
searches for a pen,
her toes do not reach the table,
her own tears cannot peel back the tape
now fastened over her mouth.
The Muse is amused.
“Always giving up something for nothing.
Not one to think ahead, are you?”

Now thought is all she has left,
snarling thick with teeth and spittle,
ideas circle, wolves
attracted to the scent of pain,
with names as familiar
as her own family's,
and just as unreachable,
the only thought she is now able to grasp.

Lynn Tait