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Wounded
I imagined the sound of the
ambulance
when I tied a tourniquet
around my torn thighs,
when it hurt
as if you tied straws
around a wound. Bitter wound,
I thought. This
is like a golden ridge
that stained ruby,
ermine-like
on the battlefield
in Rwanda, 1994,
or New York,
2001, or Iraq
for many damn years, right?
White blood, hairs
and heirs of different colours
all lay in the
archetype of
American life—
which is one small blip
on the big
radar I call universe.
And I say “small” for a reason:
because…well,
we chose this life, didn’t we?
We picked fists
over talk,
or argument, debates, with our equally
faltering minds.
Maybe, I
say, this is the best:
this, is our
consciousness;
you know, this mind, however intractable,
ignoble, or
unreal, is
a fact we live with—just like I am with my wound.
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