The Hurt Sonnet

By Casey Thayer Casey Thayer
Dark days when I awaken so I slump
                             back to the swamp of his armpit, a whit

from the arachnid he inked to the stump
                that’s left. So close to the vestige of it,

                                            the danger he’s a reliquary of:
               tattooed noose to venerate the fist

                            of a slug buried still in his butt above
a white cross for the men he didn’t miss.

               If only I could strip off the black map
I sleep against and be his liniment,

                            gloss over the explosion, the mishap
                                           phantom he feels in a forearm itch.

               He won’t leave the long tale his tattoos read
                           for me, so I amend the story.

Source: Poetry (November 2012).


This poem originally appeared in the November 2012 issue of Poetry magazine

November 2012
 Casey  Thayer


Casey Thayer received an MFA from Northern Michigan University and is an assistant professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Rock County.

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SUBJECT Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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