The Jagged Wound Poem by Martin Byrne

It moves from left to right
It moves right to left as well
Down the torso, like a vicious
Ski slope, unhappy from a spell
It wears me like its prey
Teeth sharpened from my bone
Smiling, it shines up to me
Dripping ash and feminism
For all to see
This cataclysm of me
Bleeding songs and serenades
To the dancing tirades of hunters
Who are all too happy to bestow
This gift of branding
Owning the death with a jagged wound
Slipping me further from home
My sheath, my peace
Shattered and thrown into a pile

Lady Battle, she made me swoon
Brought me here to the front lines
Tempted me with a weapon
Enticed me with the kill
She brought them here too
The enemy, the opponent, the fathers, the brothers
The uncles, the backbones, the arms, but not the brains
Or the eyes
The eyes to see the mirror in the middle
The brain to know that the reflection is yourself

Instead the jagged wound
Traces itself over the dead
(And scathes a few of the living)
As the inciters cry over spilled wine
And fuss over a teenager out of line
In the meantime the pile widens by a mile
And the jagged wound runs its course
Left to Right
Corpse to corpse