This one an exercise in cold-sweat:
__
nosebleed sheets, pink-smeared pillowcase.
I swallowed wasps in my sleep all night.
I got those
twitchy fingertips that crack at the quick
like Lavinia's twiggy snagged sinews
or Wyeth's Christina as a deaf amputee.
an IV needle won't fit
in burnt-hair tree branch veins
heavy with bruised harvest fruit fall
soaking incarnadine tar stains from larval groggs.
I tried
to unveil my hands, scrowl wreathing, mute
any of the "-cides", get taste of salty skel in
compassed, (im)paled mares, aft
or fore. Who knows?
I wake, bloody linen.
"Shit." Hemorrhaged again.
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