Half-Word

I was there,
ankle deep in vermilion gore,
when yesterday slit her wrists,
someone said the last gasp was a word, a half-word,
perhaps just a curse, a half-curse,
on vengeful time,
that curled like a cat in the sun,
upon the sill of the horizon,
stopping the light,
blotting the shadow,
staining the blood;

what is the premise of today’s birth,
the misconception of its being,
when you can see the edge of illusion,
the sticky threads of a price tag peeled away,
the sharp incision of pain is real,
though the cheap switch-knife is a stolen kiss,
though the veins are bluebell stems in flower,
though this crimson ache under my fingernails is warm,
though i know you watch through a two faced mirror
the gaping wound of a scream;

I was there,
and I heard,
the half-word that was the half-curse,
that was a gasp,
that was real. Yesterday.