Naomi

I feel the prick against my skin
Where you begin to carve away
The stubborn chaff that never dies;
And are they lies, the words you say?
Will this, my cleansing and my shine
E’er make you mine? This blood-stained sheet
That drapes about me like a cape
(below the nape) is billowing
As in this winter’s breeze the pull
Might shake and cull for anxious hand—
So mind the pressure, mind the prick,
(It makes me sick), and understand
That blood is not an endless fount.
Like years that count and run astray—
I hope that mine will not bleed dry
(I hear you sigh), or, worse, away.
Now as you wipe away the years
I feel the fears arise again
And with each cold metallic rake
I start to shake, and think of when
The sea, the sand and all the sky
Was yours and mine—before the storm
That grew around and swallowed you—
Before you knew, before you formed
And found that all we stormswept men
Would call again—would never cease
Or leave the raging, leave the swell
But gasp until your lovely sea
Accepted all we had to give:
That you could live, we all would die.
The razor is now in your hand
(I understand the signified)
And as I feel you pressing down
(What is that sound?) a bit too much
(A tear? A laugh? A strangled cry—
But yours or mine?) I count it such
A triviality to fear
If I hold dear (and dear, it is)
The promise that I made to you
When we were new; and so if this
Is how you must remember me
I hope you see not in the blood
An ounce of pain, or hate or rue,
But love for you, and for the flood.