what good is a poem under a scab —
i keep on peeling and peeling, asking
is there more to this skin
marred by my restless fingerprints —
they've all been but subtle.

what good is a poem under a scab —
it still is a wound
over which rusty dahlias mourn and spread
and maybe if i dig my fingers deep enough,
i will find an exit —
all ****.
all dust.
all quiet aching.
still, it's an escape.

and what good is a girl under a scab?
some of them are made to run —
to fashion wings and fly.
so darling, seal your wings all you want
all poetry and beeswax
and prayers to the gods
who do not speak your name,
and still, the sun would only watch you fall
as the sea spray worships
your scabbing skin.


all sad things belong to the sea
and maybe that is what you wanted.

maybe that is what you wanted after all.

— fray narte