My lover is a poet
the verses written on her body tell a story that I am not close enough to understand
I read with my fingers
as the blind do
studying the scratched runes that bring her pain into relief
She is a magpie
drawn to shiny things
the flash of a blade
and her reflection in it
She parts the skin to form lips
from which she draws
Red ink flows down the sink to a cold clatter of steel against enamel.
I draw flowers and faces on her plasters.
Kiss the lines that ladder her arms and legs
the deep ancient verse between her breasts
She does not tell me why
and I know now not to ask
between the lines.
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