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Thursday, February 14, 2013

While Shaving, Ariana D. Den Bleyker

The last time we were alone together,
you nicked a vein, on purpose,
I think, in your leg while shaving.
I might have touched it. You held
a wash cloth to the wound. You
carried the scar like an earring,
refusing to wear it, your jewelry.
You didn't want anything to heal.
Much later I could finally turn off
the light and come to bed, dream
of futures that will never come.
You said my first destination
would be through your fingertips
and down the axes of hands, golden
arcs of tendon and human condition,
all against the razor, still attached
by torn tissue and bloody muscle.
Wet. Slick, the earring now a rare,
dazzling masterpiece that never appears
less than perfect. You pin it to your
lobe, call it our dreams. You must
remember the last time I watched
the water stream down your back,
helpless in the face of your loss, how
I thought a superhero Band-aid 
would have been enough for the pain.

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