Welt

When a stranger with a blade so lucid
it can sliver apart fear and reason
unlocks your sanctuary’s marbled
chamber, he could be healer or assassin.
When he cuts and clamps you, draws your breath,
smooths his fingers round the heart’s rosary,
you wait the other side of death
sifting blood and salt from the verb ‘to be’.
When, days later, the violator calls
to chat, inspects the skin’s raw welt, hangs
a smile on your bed, says you’re looking good,
runs his finger gently down the full
stripe of your new slice of Weltanschauung,
it’s like engaging in small talk with God.

Stephen Elves

runner up, Yorkshire Open Poetry Competition, 2010