the stigmatas _

before the white tower
there was a life in the grey place
the thirteenth floor
on a level where one can see childhood
here, one lives in nostalgia
here, one remembers freedom
the woman with you belongs to the sea
she, of the evening waves
she, of the waters as old as the earth
wading, afloat, in billions of years
but here, we look out to landscape
a familiar horizon in a different universe
the road you have walked is now much further
and the trees, more of nature than the world one remembers
she points south east
and there
a white temple or hospital
a pyramidal totem on a convex polyhedron
one moves to the end of the corridor
towards true west
one touches waterfall or rain falling from elsewhen
this could be a child’s memory of church
simple and structured around a correctional facility
non-maximum, uncaged, a prison close to home
the medicine man is with me, then he is not
who then, is this brute, cuffing together ones upper arms?
is he a torturer or healer?
one’s arms and shoulders are wrapped in bandages green
pulled taut and left to suffocate skin
but only for moments
then the wraps disappear
you tense for the pain but it doesn’t come
one by one, you pull out the pierced
either needle like stems of a plant or thin but sturdy spokes
driven deep into soft, gentle flesh
one looks at ones hands
so many metallic ends, tip sticking out of fingers and wrists and knuckles and veins
one by one, one pulls them out, tensing for pain that doesn’t come
this could be the old church, now, a sick bay
a woman one could love is tending the dying man
his body fluids fill the bag beneath the bed
she bends half her body out of the door
“I’ll be ten minutes late” (ten past eight)
“I won’t be taking the test,” one says
you push down the flesh of your stomach to pull out the embedded
stick like steel spikes sliding out of meat
one braces for pain that doesn’t come at all
#oneiricnovel #irvingpaulpereira #dailywriting2016

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