The part of the whole that’s the wound, the vinyl record scratched. My fingers burning red across your lips, the hairs on your skin hard, strong grips around her hips— then the needle stalls, hangs, a breath caught between the tracks, the needle in the loom. In the hush my stomach turns— I see my face in the black, warped, greedy, wrong. Every grip a verdict now, every mark on your skin an accusation. Your hands choke me from the inside. Your hands are my own. Later, alone, I scrub them raw, watch the water turn pink, knowing it’s not enough, knowing I’d still do it, hating the part of me that waits for the record to spin again.
Excellent work
Again, my favorite thing about your poetry is the incorporation of modern objects and qualms. It adds a timeliness to your work that makes it even more poignant and significant. (I guess a record isn't even that modern anymore but the physical containment of completed music within an object is still relatively modern.) There's a lot of weight in the images created here. I read this three times all the way through.
"The part of the whole/that’s the wound," "the needle in the loom." Beautiful!