Stigmata

Just a fall, a minor fall.
I rode my flimsy scooter
into an oncoming car
along a street where
dusty trees stood
in residence trying
to gasp in the
slow momentum of air
pregnant with soot,
that rose like the polluted soul
of a river that had ceased to flow.
But this demon had now
possessed me, for I wasn’t
afraid of it’s death wish
in seeking the immortality
that the river had once imagined.
It was the blood on my knees, hands
and my forehead that I wore
in the foetid air
as I limped to a bakery
of sweet sickly confections
to celebrate victory over death,
in a city as dead as absent water
drenched in blood.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Remembering the day I had this accident somewhere in my native land. The thoughts coursing through my head at the time were of complete disregard, a certain recklessness , although I am very risk averse by nature. It was a passing moment possessed by notions of immortality I think. The couple in the car were very gracious.

Not to be the one mulling over my wounds, especially physical ones, I walked to my neighbourhood bakery to help myself to a heap of cake pastries, limped actually, exhilarated rather than shaken.

The fall hurt for a week or more but I healed.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s