The Wild

The Wild drags me by locks of hair, tresses and scalp oozing 
Scoffing me from my corner he seizes me out out out 
Out of my chest out of the warmth and into the icy white light
Like a turbulent current of wind and sun 
Pulsing against each other, warmth fighting frigidity 
Fingertips dug into the ridged wallpaper of my throat 
The Wild convulses me over and over until I am quaking and ticking 
Like a broken clock throbbing irregularly out of time
On the floor 
The gong surging back and forth clacking noisily 
Even those it is not the end of the hour 
Even those his hands are already gone
But the Wild is a ghost, the swelling opaque breath against the night 
The night not just as a time but an absence of light a place and a feeling
Drawing me not so kindly out 
Out of myself until I am howling
From the Wild inside. 

-anna sluder

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