Cento No. 9

Ariel in Black

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I live here--

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in a cell--

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a sort of

​

grave--

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a panic--

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of

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skin--

​

and

​

blood--

​

and

​

bone--

​

shut

​

as a seashell--

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freakish--

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beautiful--

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obscene--

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black

​

over blue--

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stubbornly hanging on to

​

myself

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by the roots of my hair.

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I am nude as a chicken neck--

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small--

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shrunk--

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I am ill--

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a

​

Homunculus--

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an

​

unstrung puppet--

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dying to fly.

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I am terrified by this dark thing,

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flapping and sucking,

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winding and twining,

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stuck

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in my

​

body--

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it is a heart.

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All day, I feel its

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turnings, its malignity,

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its snaky acids kiss

​

my

​

blue veins--

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I taste

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blood--

​

warm and salt--

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I taste

​

my selves dissolving--

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I cannot run.

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I cannot

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unpeel

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from this 

​

suit--

​

these

​

years.

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I cannot undo myself.

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I am still raw--

​

remembering

the pain

​

of wars, wars, wars.

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I am

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stuck,

​

eyeing 

my scars,

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hearing

my

crackling.

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I am 

stuck--

starless and fatherless--

​

black

​

and

​

blackening.

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