Old Wounds

1 October 2015

It was the day after the day
you nearly strangled
the dog pushing her
into the dirt
my eyes bulged
lips glued tight while
you shouted
keep up.

I don’t think it’s possible for skin
to get any whiter than mine was
kabuki white, though strictly
speaking shades of white are
actually neutral greys: death grey
the absence of colour.

Colour is a private sensation
anyway, like fear.

In the now of what some might call
aftermath a pattern of broken molecules
appears in the gravel below
yesterday’s feet while I fall further
behind atoms vibrating harder in the
centre while the edges of my life spread

into this new space, charged by
discomfort
every day, it’s like a new start
into an old wound.

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