KC Trommer

 

PUNCTURE

THE HASP TONGUE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PUNCTURE

 

Apply pressure. A dogÕs bite. As in a puncture strip, used to deflate tires.

Pin in a balloon. A pen, a nail, a splinter, broken glass, almost any sharp

object will do. A puncture wound on either side of the area just above

the knee where the dog grasped with its jaws. Allow it to breathe

freely. There were puncture wounds on the body, as from a knife, a scissor.

A small hole piercing the skin. Often, a pin. A large abrasion to the right cheek.

Can you see fatty tissue? Muscle? Clean the wound. Protect it.

Does the object remain in the wound? If the object remains in the wound,

if the wound is in the head, chest, or abdomen, unless it is small—

Injuries to the right hip and side and a puncture wound in the center of the back.

The wound may not bleed excessively, may heal quickly on its own.

You may need urgent care. Is there a loss of feeling? Is there numbness?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


THE HASP TONGUE

 

 

The sucker mouths of the lampreys open

to show a circle of vampire teeth. Their bodies wave out

behind them. They were once eaten by kings—

one died of a surfeit of lampreys.

 

When we swim, we swim with them.

You laugh at me and jump in, arms then

shoulders then the steaming mass of your head,

shed horseflies from your skull.

 

Another circle within the first mouth circle: vagina dentata.

Who can see them and not think it?

Mouth circle with rows of layered teeth where Virgil

                        walks, Dante trailing him, into the mouth,

 

down the next flight of teeth, along the hasp tongue

and into the blood-filled belly of the lamprey.

Fixed to the side of a bass, it will suck,

the mouth working everything out.

 

Some hatch, toothless, in fresh water,

mature in the ocean, come back to fresh water to feed.

I keep calling it ocean, but there is no salt.

We see our toes as we test Lake Superior.

 

Strange, nothing here. No seaweed bladders, no gulls picking

through driftwood. You swim to me and I see you

before you grab my legs. We weave inside and out

of the Painted Rocks, wave at the pontoon boats

 

before dipping our heads back underwater.

You keep your eyes open as you swim.

The water makes us loose confederates,

swimmers whose heads bob above the surface.