this one's all about the remnants of guilt


Blood On My Hands


Out, damn spot
Why do you stay there,
Ingrained in my lifelines,
Etched in my laboured skin.

Digits gripped, then uncurled,
Receding with the sight,
Smears, and residues,
The crimson on the white

Marked contrast,
Binary opposition
Threatening to blow the submarine
Sky-high into the cosmos and beyond.

Trembling, aftershocks
Of something unknown,
Something unseen
A radar surfacing in the silence.

Maybe that's all there is.
This can't be all there is.
My hands must be clean
Yet I cannot scrub them enough.

This rag is wearing thin
and your loincloth will not suffice.
I would rather see the mark
Invade the rest of my palmar surface

Supinated and raw,
No recovery foreseeable,
in the immediate future.
Of course, there will be time

To wash in the lakes of the Nile
And bear witness to a basket floating long,
Carrying something more,
Holding thousands of a new direction

A realisation that the mark is real,
The scar tissue is felt,
The bruises are indeed seen by others,
And it's out of your hands.

The narrow thread of time escaped,
And now there is no choice
But to cope with what is left,
Make the most of this mess

That is still covering my skin
In a film transparent yet impenetrable,
So I can feel, but I can't touch
And I can't make sense of your presence.

The waters of resistance will carry me,
And only then is there hope for redemption,
A new look in your eyes
And two hands free from the sins of the past.




Poetry by Caila Ihle
Read 490 times
Written on 2006-08-24 at 07:17

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