my ribs ring

my ribs ring as your truths pound and then sear

like hot irons on open flesh wounds;

your words drive me back against the wall

hopelessly grabbing at my entrails, that you have

so nicely carved up for our consumption.

And no doubt you will find me from

the trail of vomit that reveals I was

unable to keep my secrets down.

Now, as I kneel in my own bile

I can’t help thinking that

this is what I deserved; and

I make a note to remember to thank you

once I gather up what’s left of me.


– Chris George 

April 1981  

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