by Laura Copelin

I reared up like everyman   I could’ve talked my way out of anything
siphoning off the ache of an inarticulate energy

I opened up like everyday
uncontained
potential for:
         some quietly
         some with violet inside
         some smelling like old clothes   newly soiled

each as opaque as a candled egg

only to discover   blood on the yolk
shelled with blood the thing itself,   membrane thick as an omen
         more opaque than its incandescent descent descends

I was always a pillar of salt      waiting like a fool to dissolve  at the turn of your heel
but you never turned

blood in the fried eggs  like a blister   made you sorry for the places you rubbed raw
emergent from the rubbing      a callous    causal reaction   nothing potential about it

I will overtake you like the climbing rose

thorns in your branches   drawing blood   and blooming