"That's the way it is with a wound." - Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club.
by Charles Aslesen-Rekela
The layers grow faster than can be peeled away.
The scab seals the scarred surface
Supposedly seeking the sun.
Search for sight
Beneath the dried blood.
Pick it. Pick me.
Choose open and visible wounds over oddly smooth leather scabs.
If you pull the flaky-cracked and broken blankets over your late teen
(Though not wonting worldly wise)
The darting darkness lies
And exhausted nightly crys
To the section of his brain saved for the dust and flies.
Under pressure, emotion dies.
Tell me what that implies.
Rhyming does sensationalize.
Distort the truth, subterfuge, fake false faux guise.
Androgenize, artificialize, anabaptize.
Is it possible to squirm around sands much more
and wade through muck much less
Than does he with collected rhyme and directed diction
Showing not telling his way
Around the foggy draggled forest?
(Mother Tongue’s sore congeals within the articulated chops.)
You take the low road through the tapering jungle and watch him
Outside the edge
Fiddling a tune on the yellow brick sunshine high road.
If you are lucky, he will extend
A smooth and creamy hand to you
(The forest closes in and begins to coalesce.)
A sticky lump of thought thus coagulates:
When the scabs are in season, they grow plentiful.
When one falls ripe yet dry from the vine, a truth escapes the scabless place.
When the open sore begins to wane
Under the weight of the clotting corpuscles,
The pain cannot see the light
And the light can’t see the pain.