I was ready early. I was wearing that dress. The wound
would take me somewhere, then deliver me back to the step
& b/c we met I became wound’s home, a nest. Home is
the only word, really, if you think about it. Wound is
its synonym. God’s first act was the wound, & the 2nd,
& the 3rd. The same 3 acts as true for men. The wound is
formlessness & form. An open hand. A fist. A weapon
someone else’s fingers assembled & burnished. W/tools
we invented distance. Distance permits the wound to be
both natural & an accident. I welcomed the wound.
It opened, expanded, I grew. Rooms I grew up in—wounds.
I grew & defended the wound from other girls (jealous
girls) who were desperate to find a wound of their own. Scared
b/c all the good wounds were getting serious. Sometimes,
afterwards, the wound coos in my ear, there, there . . . & it is
bliss to have welcomed the wound, to no longer be restless.
Copyright © Stevie Howell. Originally published in I left nothing inside on purpose (McClelland & Stewart, 2018).
Stevie Howell is a psychometrist & writer who lives in Victoria, BC. Stevie’s second collection of poetry, I left nothing inside on purpose, was released last spring by Penguin Random House Canada. Stevie is currently writing a thriller, & forever working on her afterlife.
See the League’s 2019 Book Awards Shortlists here.