I cut myself

Often. The bloodslice like thin lips parted in prayer.
The supplication in the rise of blood. Pink at first,
feeding quickly on oxygen to implausible scarlet.
Beautiful as the dark wine we take for Communion. Holy
as Christ’s own blood blessed in the chalice and sipped
for our sins. Forgive/me/Father/forgive/me/for I have sinned.
And my blood soft and warm sealing the wound slowly, slowly.
Some dripping into the porcelain-white sink, later washed to the sea
forgiving all the earth’s sins. But there is never enough forgiveness
in just one cutting, so I will take this tiniest of suffering unto
my own flesh again and again. The madness of the razor
cutting to the altar of my bones, below the softness of my arms
reaching out for God.

Ed Higgins’ poems and short fiction have appeared in various print and online journals. He and his wife live on a small farm in Yamhill, OR, and raise a menagerie of animals including two whippets, a manx barn cat (who doesn’t care for the whippets), and an alpaca named Machu-Picchu. His website is here.