Everyday I pace
my hands up and down
the street . They'll
not come up with me,
I'll
not have them back
to be nailed like his .
Already Tuesday and
already I still am not
tired the last dream
too thick for sleep
already my hands
reconciled, return to
their ways their search
for something to touch
not you
Joyce Carol Oates
SCAB
• •
•
At first you bleed freely, like another's tears.
The taste is salty on the tongue.
The pain, though said to be centered in the brain,
throbs and blossoms in the wound,
imparts its radiance....
By degrees the blood slows, as it must.
It thickens, congeals.
The wound shrinks to its proper size .
The scab is tender at first ,
then hard, ridged-
a secret braille.
Your fingertips can't resis t.
