With curtains drawn,

Long after

The last light of dusk

Has faded

With the quiet undress

Of deep amber silks,

She stands within

A fluorescent pool of light

Stripping back

The folds of her skin

So they hang from the bones

Like open clothes

Exposing

Every intimate detail

Where she counts

New bruises

While tracing the ridges

Of those finally healed;

She plucks out thorn

And thistle;

Finds slippery pebbles

Stuck between bones;

But she’s careful not to meddle

With the stubborn hooks

Glistening rust within her chest

Because she’s grown used

To that kind of pain

That ripples and swells

With each sigh—

A quiet anguish

That she can never really be rid of