by Ellen Metrick
Under the wound is wonder,
Is a wound-door, is light
Wound around bone.
Each wound is a door, opens
On light, lets in the red bird,
Remembered flight
Screaming for a link, a lit line
From soul to sun,
From separation to repatriation.
To incise opens desire
Bloodflower blooms
from passion’s bud,
Scents grey stone of sheer existence
With wonder, as water sends
flat lichen onto tiptoe tendrils
in a bright orange swell of praise.