compulsion
louise carter
To understand the outcome
and step off anyway – a lifetime
of rehabilitation. Of cool mornings
in the institution; lukewarm Nescafe
and mentholated cigarettes.
Downward facing. Giving in
to compulsion, the gear shift,
a chasm of neutrality
in the moment preceding
decision, a heartbeat
in the pipeline; hands
cupped for receiving.
Sick with the nauseous knowledge
of broken teeth, a collarbone snapped
in three places, ribs like the bottom
of a packet of milk arrowroot biscuits –
ca-chunck ca-chunck, tinkle tinkle.
It can’t come soon enough.
Hand me a pen and sign me up,
impale my heart upon a fondue stick;
dip it in your blood.
Indolently grandiose, adrift
in the congealed glut
of my own hubris, I accept
the terms and conditions
as the Devil strokes the bankroll
of the bet he's due to win.
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