The day rises brilliant
in the storm’s wake —
its clarity a splinter
driven straight down
to the bone.
And grasping my pen
like a needle
I have at it —
while the wind gets
high and sweet.

I lay the raw,
beating thing
before you
but still go
And you have
the mirror obsession.

Open these jars of night.
Spill blood on blank pages,
and still,
you do not care to look.
And if you will not look,
you cannot see.

I sink your voice
down to the root,
and save it for days like this,
when I can face the work —
strike flesh
with this needle
to dig out
what cannot be used,
what does not belong,
until I am again
grown receptive
to the world,
but with a better guard
against your barbed words.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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