By Merle Molofsky

We know only our own
Mutilations, trace
Configurations of scars
As if they were constellations.
We are the hidden freak show,
Solo lepers clanging soundless bells.
We are unable to confess
These silent wounds;
We bleed internally and alone.
Lost in a forest of cries
We hear only our own;
In a garden of grotesqueries
We know only our own mutilations:
I alone am unclean.
Of a summer’s night we reach
For handfuls of stars, perfectly formed.
We cool flaming flesh with cold patterns.
We know only our own mutilations,
And feel no pity for the laughing crowds.
We hang together, configurations
Of cold pain, seeing only the brilliant beauty
Of each other.  On a summer’s night
We reach for handfuls of solitude.

Merle Molofsky, psychoanalyst and poet, serves on the boards of IFPE and NAAP and the editorial board of The Psychoanalytic Review. Articles in The Psychoanalytic Review,
Journal of Religion of Health.

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