Cento No. 9
Ariel in Black
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I live here--
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in a cell--
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a sort of
​
grave--
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a panic--
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of
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skin--
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and
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blood--
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and
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bone--
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shut
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as a seashell--
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freakish--
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beautiful--
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obscene--
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black
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over blue--
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stubbornly hanging on to
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myself
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by the roots of my hair.
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I am nude as a chicken neck--
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small--
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shrunk--
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I am ill--
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a
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Homunculus--
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an
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unstrung puppet--
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dying to fly.
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I am terrified by this dark thing,
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flapping and sucking,
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winding and twining,
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stuck
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in my
​
body--
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it is a heart.
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All day, I feel its
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turnings, its malignity,
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its snaky acids kiss
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my
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blue veins--
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I taste
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blood--
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warm and salt--
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I taste
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my selves dissolving--
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I cannot run.
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I cannot
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unpeel
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from this
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suit--
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these
​
years.
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I cannot undo myself.
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I am still raw--
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remembering
the pain
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of wars, wars, wars.
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I am
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stuck,
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eyeing
my scars,
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hearing
my
crackling.
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I am
stuck--
starless and fatherless--
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black
​
and
​
blackening.
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