There is no use to consider
The color of pain
Of any use,
Yes to look at the jib of the cut
And the swelling blood-drops
And feel the edge of the cut
And the warm stickiness
And the body-faintness
Yes-and to consider antiseptics
Perhaps and bandages
And dwell a little on how
With such a wound
One can live-around
About on the edges of it
till it heals:
These things are healing in
themselves to think of
But to consider the color
of the pain
The stance of the wounder
and the act of wounding
To dwell in the hurt like an
animal condemned
This is a grave sickness that
torments to the death
Like abuse unattended:
What does it matter to you if
the knife was
Concealed or open or if you were
laid low by friend or enemy?
Or the details, time, place, songs
playing, special - nuances?
Scream, whimper, swear
if you must
At the wound, though
Always at the wound
Never the wounder or
the wounding
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem