puncture ovenbird In the mirror I examine the two pronged puncture sunk into my neck’s stretched vellum. Was I bitten by the ghost of the spider I failed to save from an unfair fate? What venom nudges my skin towards necrosis? I probe the angry edges with the morbid curiosity of a vivisectionist and I wince at the sting that rises to meet the worried whorls of my fingertips. If fangs must find the faltering river of my throat’s last sigh, let them be yours. You who know the trick of dressing death in the silk of a thousand songs. I wouldn’t even notice the pain of my breath escaping, wrapped so gently in the shroud of yours. 260508 what's it to you? who go blather from