Thumbs

From an early collection of works, 1989-1999. This poem is from the first book of 3, entitled "Conception"

Mine are swollen and painful

where I have pricked them sharp

too many times over

in search of that cup -

you know the one -

 

Crimson stains to a glorious spiral

spinning in a cloud of white

or brown.

 

Reasurring me that yes,

I am still one amongst the living

(or at least living fast amongst the dead).

 

Fast, I starve.

 

Staring at myself in mirrors that are more windows

my translucent reflection

seen too late

to be of any use.

 

Bruised by the realization,

I turn away

and keep on telling myself

I really don't care

what they say.