the poet Jamison Gilley once told me
of his penchant for lying naked
in a fetal position
on the cold tile floor
in the bathroom
of his Manhattan loft.
unable to move for hours
waiting to feel something
anything
and feeling nothing, seeing
nothing, being
nothing.
and I thought
if I could lie down
on some milky black night
and detach my retinas
swiftly, like opening a vein
I could use my mind's eye
to see
how you pulled me in
gutted me
disembowled me
and bled me out
how you opened me
skillfully
© 2010 Ag Synclair
(Originally published in Gloom Cupboard #118, Amphibi.us)
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