IPad Note Poem no 8: the psoriatic

IPad Note Poem no 8: the psoriatic

It starts on the calves
The skin reddens
Swells and itches
It is only later that
The scales come
If they come at all
And then the shame
Follows

Of course, it is known
That it is not one's
Fault. No pecuniary
Damage can be assessed
But tell that to the
In-born savage who
Sees patterns in the
Cracking skin: the
Mark of the Devil
The hooves of the beast
Kicked hard into the
Shins

So one applies ancient
Balm that smells of
Pitch and sulfur,
Muttering two word
Prayers to a god
Too angry to remove
The curse

Oh God
Oh God
Oh God

And one believes
And one repeats
And one remains
The itching of the
Skin subsides
An abiding God
Resides

Recalling the cold
Past where we
Swam deep in
Tropical waters
And our skins
Were hardened
For a purpose
Not beyond
Reckoning

Where the only
God was to swim
On to the next day
With no feeling
In our flinty
Hides

Our past
Hides beneath
Supple skin, waiting
For the winter
Morning when it
Will break forth
To protect us
From something
That is no longer
Here

Sent from my iPad