Lament with Six Stitches
Everyone who looks at you sees
my face in your face
but this is a part of you I do not know:
one of the only parts, this inside of your skin,
many layers down, flanged with white
and pulpy-red, exactly as a split fruit.
Less than I ever do I see myself in you now—
blood trail down your shirt, the hole gaping
between your eyes—I, who am so careful,
who only came close once to slipping
out from this world’s grasp: the day you
came into it, a noose around your neck
that almost killed us both. And here
we are again.
Read this poem in its entirety, as well as another, here: http://leonliteraryreview.com/issue-10-colleen-abel/