C. Derick Varn ~ Wounding

Don’t bring a knife to gun
sex, the scraping will leave
little left to pander and wounds
will both pucker and zag,
the courtship of hermit crabs
scurrying in silt in the heat-sink
of the salt marsh, if they were
more like humans, what would
we make their shells clanging
together like little harden boots.
One must write I suppose, although
this is objectively not true: one
must love I suppose although
this is also not entirely true,
although silicon lubricant
and WD-40 make the world’s
hinges scream more quietly,
more closely.  Two people
blend, one hopes the other
does not bleed out, even
into lover’s flesh, pretending
briefly to be one and not
solipsistically stabbing
or being stabbed into
one’s own hole of a being.
Whole being harder to
stitch and suture
into one singular
shambling creature.


C. Derick Varn is a poet, teacher, and theorist.  He currently edits for Former People and is a reviewer for the Hong Kong Review of books.  He has a Master of Fine Arts in Poetry at Georgia College and State University where he served as assistant editor for Arts and Letters: A Journal of Contemporary Arts.  He has served as managing editor for the now defunct Milkwood Review. He won the Frankeye Davis Mayes / Academy of American Poets Prize in 2003 and  His poetry has appeared at Unlikely Stories 2.0, Axe Factory, Full of Crows, Writing Disorder, JMWW,  Clutching at Straws, Nebo, Piriene’s Fountain, and elsewhere. He currently abides in Cairo, Egypt and his nomadic tendencies have found him living in South Korea and Northern Mexico as well.  He lives with his partner, and a bunch of books, and writes at night.


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