Letter to a Wound

“Once I carved on
a seat in the park—
We have sat here.
You’d better not.”
—W.H. Auden,
Letter to a Wound

The maid clears—away the tea
Snivelly it seems—isn’t she?
Of course—she knows the truth
So does Gabriel—and Olive
Mrs. Marshall—and the Queen

There are no secrets—about us
You and me—Madame Wound
It’s hard to realize—almost a year?
Since that sailor—in the garden
A foreign youth—from Damascus

Did me in—with bold excitement
But my days of boasting—are over
Just ask the aloof—cool surgeon
Dr. Gangle—tight-lipped washing
His hands after—examining me

Sewing my wound—with sutures
Soiled swabs of cotton—testifying
To the crime—of the century
How it hurts to walk—or sit calmly
Feeling intimate—like I used to

Such shameful pain—much worse
Than hemorrhoids—you and I
Making sure I felt—every moment
For being rude and insincere—to you
Punishing me—for my indulgence

Who’d have guessed—such a young
Immature slightly built—sailorboy
Possessed such a huge—pile-driver?
I remember you telling me—sincerely
“You’d better not—it’s much too big!!!”

After all up-close—you had a much
Better view of his—ungodly Godzilla!!!
How you made me cry—afterwards
Confessing my sins—so selfishly and
Shamelessly—now in the dark

Making me pay dearly—disgustingly
So here we are—a whole year later
Knowing you—has made me humble
Knowing we’ll never part—just burn
Obsessed now—with eternal return

Mortally wounded—still bleeding
Nervously waiting—for your next
Sharp jabbing of pain—down there
Where I used to have—so much fun
But I’m calm—I’ll just have to wait

Good night—God bless you, my dear