If I were Kurt’s childhood wound, what would I look like? The speaker stares off into the middle distance and tries to imagine Aberdeen, mid-seventies, a flaxen-haired kid who would become the next rock legend, and not the gaping hole of his left eye socket or the brain matter scattered like jewels across the floor. (Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.) The thing is, I think Kurt’s fatal wound and his childhood wound were one and the same, just as the new generation carries the wounds of the old generation like prison tattoos to its grave. The speaker isn’t satisfied with this comparison, as “prison tattoos” does not convey the depth of Cobain’s wounding, or the world’s, or even her own. There is, however, the nice slant rhyme of “same/grave,” which is far less Whitmanian and far more genocidal than may at first seem. What grows there grows everywhere. The wound is a hole covered by weeds.