X F Lacasse Poet Italian Sonnet

Picking at Scabs - Apr 9

—it’s the black boil on bursting, boiling ribs—
on my midleft chest, brewing bungled churns,
[tighteningmybreath], again, again, it yearns,
it begs*, “just one (just two) more (well-earned) rub(s)!”

—giving in, it’s just picking at the scabs—
first brief relief(      ):the itch at once returns 
as soon’s the finger’s left the welt; it burns
and gnaws more hotly—awful pangs, sore jabs!

now, Doctor says I’d best not touch it if 
I’d like to heal—“lucky to leave just a scar”—
only, I hate the texture of the crust…
why’s my mind got to be so god,damned,stiff?
though abstinence feels so blunt, so bizarre,
I’d like to heal, I give his word my trust.

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