Ode on a Scab (or perhaps, an elegy)
Oh, scab in my ear, grotesque and hard
Your clotted body clings to the skin
that you wish to be beneath your char.
Burnt umber, lumpy, dry and cracked in
a cartilaginous cave, which compared
to the lobe, is outright overlooked.
And to the canal? Not good for much.
Hidden from sight, tucked under the rook
Even I cannot see you've repaired.
To see, I must hold, so first, I touch
my nail on your crust, rougher than brick.
I find your hardest edge, nearly healed.
Then I scratch, hook, pinch, pull, pick pick pick
And I can’t stop picking til you're peeled.
True satisfaction abandons grace.
My body bent yet stiff in plain view
My fingers move to remove your bark.
With a tab of scab well-gripped, I brace
for the tear-jerking rip in the dark
spawning raw flesh smooth and fresh blood new.
Beholding your corpse, I see you're gross
like my need: to pluck you from your nest.
God, dam this flood! Or else diagnose
who causes this caustic deep skin quest.
An influx of feelings with tickets
to ride an already sold-out train?
Evict them all from where they reside.
Next time skin breaks, you need not fix it!
Do not rush, but rest, you restless brain.
Time heals. Blood dries. More, all the same.