The Warmth of Wounds

The Warmth of Wounds

You are silent as a tumor

just beneath the skin of our

bed sheets

maligned and warm,

morning placing its

silver blade

dimly across our touching.

My hands are under your skin

revealing fears,

ripe as a leper's smile and ready

to burst.

I will touch you lightly---

as the clock's hum, as the

distant laugh

of geese in formation,

coax you from the ether into this...

I'm sorry.

The warmth drains from the bed

in our wake,

drying it hard. But we

return

relentlessly,

sheathing this dulled ache

in old sores,

scaring them over again

for the warmth of wounds.