Damage |
Issue 12
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In a blink I saw the neon pinprick
of a light’s memory lingering in my eye. I couldn’t recall what ray or bulb tore the dark fabric of my pupil, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the star-shaped hole, one of many damages to my temporary body, like the roughbacked moles on my arms and neck, arching higher in the sun, the way the turn of my ankle in the hole in the yard still aches like a dull nail, the pinch in my chest from too many meals thick with grease. What other future scars are just starting to take root now? Where are the weak spots in my bones, tendon and marrow wearing thin like car brakes? What bug bites, accidents, quiet diseases await to mold my being into mush? And if I stay inside, how long until my disused muscles tenderize into worn socks under my skin? Is there a seed somewhere now waiting to bloom into the fruit of my death? I guess what I’m saying is one day there will be one thing you can say that took me from you, but on that day, you’ll only be able to name that one thing. |
Devon Neal is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Stone Circle Review, Livina Press, and The Storms, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.
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