Posted by Atticus on July 22, 2004, at 20:09:30
Spots
A dark maroon spot
No larger than a match-head
Clings to the refrigerator,
Sending seismic tremors
Undulating
Up my outstretched arm,
Making the pitcher of water
In my white-knuckled right hand
Quiver almost imperceptibly,
Creating concentric ripples
In the liquid's glassy surface,
Carrying me back
To my shaky perch
On the lip of the abyss.It's blood spatter,
More damned blood spatter.
A random droplet
That flew from my left wrist
As a rushing tide
From three opened veins
Swirled around my arm
And dripped from my fingertips
With the same unfathomable force
Of turbulent ocean waters
Sliding along damp, hard sand,
The heralds of a hurricane.Cursing, I slam
The wobbling pitcher
Onto the countertop,
Storming to the sink
To wet a sponge.
A single swipe
And the marker
Of that day is erased,
But still I sigh deeply,
Knowing it won't be the last.Another spot, still hidden,
Minute yet immense,
Will always be waiting,
Crouched like a crusty beetle
On the cabinets,
On the floor,
On the wall near the phone,
Hoping to catch my eye
And squeeze a gasp
From my lungs,
Leaving me hypnotized,
Paralyzed,
As I consider the deed,
Now incomprehensible,
That placed it there.My eyes slide,
Unbidden,
Down the metallic door
Like magnets that have lost
Their ability to grip
The slippery surface
Where they once nested
With ease.The heavy woolen scent
Of new carpeting
Rises in my nostrils,
But my eyes still see
The phantom image
Of a brilliant red trail.
A snaking, monochromatic
Jackson Pollock painting
Tracing my unsteady journey
That late spring afternoon
From the box-cutter
Sitting serenely in a ribbon of sunlight
On slick, bloody cushions
To the phone where I punched in 9-1-1,
Spraying the wall
With every desperate stab of a button.I watch myself, dispassionately,
Tottering to unlock the front door
(blackness)
Colliding with a table,
Flipping open the deadbolt
(blackness)
Awaking on the linoleum,
Staring numbly
At a perfect crimson handprint
On the opposite wall
Of the entryway.Christ, I never imagined,
Never imagined
It would be this way.
No gentle stroll
Into that good night
But a ferocious animalistic struggle
To draw just one more breath,
To stave off the
(blackness).The creak of the screen door's
Rusted springs.
A black rubber-soled shoe
And a navy blue trouser cuff.
Squawk of static
(blackness)
So many hands
Grasping me.
How could anyone have
So many hands?I jerk my gaze back up
From the memory
Of my self-made abattoir,
Fixing it steadily
On the empty white space
Where the spot once lurked.I toss the sponge
Back into the sink,
Pour myself a glass of water,
Trying to wash away the spots
Still clustered inside.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:369167
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040320/msgs/369167.html