Melanie Kenny


Blue ink. Blue heart. A way to start in deep
as dye through a vessel tints lymph's branched trail.
Cut cells, glass slides. The needle pricks skin's veil.
I forget my girl days of curls and pleats.
My shoulder brushed the door jamb and clay bells
ring out reproof. If only I could stand,
my mouth would say: sugar, I'm your dark ant.
I drank it all, no ice. Red, black label.
Decisions should be made any way but this:
train wreck ahead, jumped tracks, the engineer
amazed he's not the one dead. You're too near.
You think I should let them. A few quick tests.
I want what I'm afraid they'll give a name:
murmuring valve through which this hard need came.



I couldn't resist filling the sonnet's well-ordered container with a messy situation. Tattoos, heart problems, and binge-drinking add a little daytime-tv spice.