Wire (TRHA) by Pat Connors
Canadian poet Pat Connors on the TRHA of Canada.
My nerves are wound like piano wire
wrapped around my wrists and ankles
etched into my face and beating heart
while I scream into a vacuum.
Forgetting the madness I left behind
I remember our sacred, smelly hill
where we used to smoke and talk
about when things would be different.
We cut through barbed wire. The fangs
which sank deep inside and tried to tear
us apart, we overcame, until all that
remained was what bound us together.
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