The Emotional Orphan

The poetry book falls, slow motion to the floor
and I take cover anticipating the ensuing
explosion of words, and wisdom
destined to be shrapnel to my soul.

Knowing nothing of modern literary warfare,
I jump under the table onto the shards of my life.
Broken dreams, shattered visions-
cutting me to the core.

This is where the scars come from.
Not from the mushroom cloud, unexpected
and spreading slowly through the room
intermingled with the fumes of coffee
that awaken me.

Without choice I inhale, and they burn,
singeing the tissues of my being.
Not the sickness – but the cure.
The rapid sting of alcohol on the wound.

I await the removal of the stitches.
Ripped out. Bleeding out-
past the world and onto the page.
Scars. Cleansed. Everlasting. Fallout.
Glowing as if under switched on artificial light,
Until living with them becomes familiar.