38

My body pierced
I grasp sticks,
The points above me:

A loathsome wound,
Rotting,
Diseased.

I pant.
No strength. My eyes
Nothing.

Lovers and companions
Stand aloof—
And my kinsmen.

They've set a banquet
Of poisons before me,
Both quick and slow:

Some through the ears.
Some through the eyes.
Some through the tool I pierce with.

I am done
With piercing
And being pierced, but

My enemies
Are so
lively.

I would rise,
Sing you
The pit.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1994