I will live--they promise--
for one thousand cuts

By one hundred, there is more
in my world than pain. I am taken
by a relic of my past--

    I walk with her in the country
        Our strides are slow, long
            We are still in love

    And shake violently. The limbs are wet   black
            This cannot last

Bastards
They move carefully around
my penis and testicles.

I am ambivalent. They love
my buttocks. Their blades go deep
move slowly

If I could stand, now I would
have to stand
forever

    Oh. No longer will cellos
        untie my knots
            or flutes bridge the circling abyss

    I listen within--my own pure tone--
        screech of skin, bone clicks,
            sigh of hair

My back hangs loose. What have they done?

They know how I employed my fingers. Ten nails
are pulled slowly, palms carved to tendons,
red velvet girders, struts

Dense architecture desculptured.
Words retreat deeper,
for eyes, for ears no more

I mouth, you need practice
They shake with laughter, love me
for what I will be

Their blades are birds' wings, a brush
of fins, the thorn's deep kiss
I understand--they are trying to get in

    When we loved, lover
        our lives
            glistened like torrent

    And stone
        We shone through abrasion
            We lived nearly forever

My body has become small--more than flesh
lost, fluid departing. I wither, curl
like petals outward and fall

I offer error no room. Their knives
must turn disciplined, creative
They want, need more

    My fierce thoughts throttle the sun
        Waters part to receive me
            like my lover's lips, her lips

Before they get my tongue I tell them
You are only killing yourselves
My voice--buckling avenue of air--escapes

Free. Did I say anything?
Again they seek my eyes, hate banality
hate what is left

    Look at my blue branches. I am a forest
        in shade, a river. My new orders
            are be ridge, ravine, be sky, be plain

Why do they delight in taking my penis apart?
Do they think it has a soul of its own? Does it?
I open myself to Death. Fool. He is busy elsewhere.

    I am a doll. I glitter like gold flecks
        creeping downward in creek beds, valley bound
            the sea. Light pours out of me

    At last I give more than I receive
        My guts reach for the earth, my estate
            enriches the world

I smile at my oppressors, lipless

Ah...finally they fear me
They are drawn toward my eyes
I must guess the rest

    is heaven up or down

    i have no more tongue to bite
        would scream
            have lost count What

    what are they doing?
        so cold
            i burn

    all but nothing
        i smell wet earth
            rejoin my urine my blood

    like lovers' eyes
        lowering spiders
            the stars loom closer

            what is there left

            what is there

            to forgive

Note: The Death of One Thousand Cuts was a particularly diabolical form of torture. The object was to deliver one thousand cuts upon the victim without killing him and without having him lose consciousness.