After My Throat Was Cut With All Due Care


And on the third day I arose,
dragged up from painful rest
to stagger on a hard white road,
under harsh suns in a world
that seemed far distant from my own:
the ward a small and silent space,
square, flat and patterned
like some figure from geometry,
as sterile as that science

And on the third day I arose,
firmly gripped on either side,
hauled upright like so much meat,
striving to escape to my own
world of one warm sun
with room to move,
sharp sounds and colours,
fresh air and a changing clime

And on the third day I arose
to find my solid-seeming legs
withdraw support, appearing real
and yet not there
save in sensation

And on the third day I arose
to meet the cold white floor,
feed its parched surface
with my tears.

I did not rise again.


First published in Loch Raven Review, 2006


© David Nourse 2010


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