by Gaylord Brewer
I love to bleed.
—Arturo Gatti
My Timberlands, jean legs bound
by rubber band, padded jacket
are no protection
from thorn that hooks my ear.
Shaking loose, I feel it rip through
lobe and cross the cheek.
When I bring my wet hand away,
the palm drips red,
fine blackberry stigmata. I didn’t believe
I would pick again, but when this
wild patch appeared
as by divine temptation…
Now here I was, car angled at
“no trespassing,” suffering alone
the summer swelter
of this earthly moment,
resistless setting: blind embankment,
knee-deep undergrowth
to reach even the nearest snarl of vine.
Chigger, tick, coiled serpent
underfoot, each tentative step
threat to send me plummeting.
Brother, I am bleeding. I am
warrior-fool and would not be otherwise.
One must pay the price
for each dark gem
claimed for thy peril. This
the old faith of the world, nearly
forgotten. This, the happiness of man.