STIGMATA poem

STIGMATA

                absinthe the night I
            stabbed him in the hand

        the shrub wormwood
              that green essence men love
             almost as much as
               they love death

        the first time I drank it
               pink yolks drifting
             in a spongy haze

                droplets shaken
        from a drenched wall

            two years later his bullet
              tore through my palm

(c) ERIC BASSO, USA,     April 13, 2014