I welcomed the wound & by Stevie Howell

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.

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