It would be beautiful
were it not on my body.
Now the dark softens into red.
Blood makes it way
back to the body.

Were it not on my body,
the bruise, cloud risen
back to the body,
might be water stain on copper.

The bruise, cloud risen,
gathered into lakes,
might be water stain on copper.
I cannot picture it dispersing.

Gathered into lakes,
I cannot picture it dispersing—
my want for you, still sharp,
a rib I carry.

My want for you, still sharp,
beaded in flesh,
a rib I carry,
were it not on my body.