Wound (Passed Down)
My mother didn’t know
the contours of her wound
so had to sculpt mine
by feel
as if she were a blind girl
and I were a piano that she heard
by touch,
only that would have been a deaf girl
and she didn’t honestly
touch much.
At a certain point, I took charge
of my own wound,
but since I also worked by feel at first,
its deepening seemed somewhat haphazard
like the chance radio station
the frequencies always
default to.
It was only as I grew older
when I could see it in the mirror
or when I looked down
at my person
that I became conscious of where
I put in the dirk.
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Poem for Margaret Bednar’s lovely quilting challenge on Real Toads. Not sure this exactly fits but what I have. The above an image from fabric saved by Margaret. Process note: dirk is a small knife (probably more properly a small dagger of Scottish Highland origin.)
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