If I cut a hole in my chest,
An assertion on penance
An exchange of due harm
To restore in confidence,
Of prior wounds and consequence
An authority in letting, an opening
A centimetre wide and two down
Would the words bead out and dribble down?
A hole in my chest
A sliver, just a patch
Messes of half torn and clotted flesh
The pause
The beading rush of startle
The streaming of hidden blue rivers,
Blushing red,
The flushing embarrassment of first sight
Exposed
Caught in the confusion of
The staggering gasp
The first breath of menthol freedom
Hope that with each word,
Chained to venison canvas,
A venesection, a confession
An alphabet of suture thread
A letter, a symbol, stretching across
My body is knitting itself back together
Refusing to relent to any dehiscence
Constantly growing with the steady scribble
The military march of beating heart and breathing.