After the accident, my body was
no longer a flower. I noticed your
eyes turn from my tumeric skin, mouth spilled
over a vacant face. An exposed ache.
There was no remedy for that mirror,
reluctance of your fingertips to claim
me, not quite smile eluding my naked
light. I began to believe my bloodstream
was radioactive, that my womb glowed
strange and bright. Nothing could keep us safe, not
ritual or remembrance, not laughter
or one still breath. This deeper knowledge poured
through the days until our minds could hold it,
body cleansed of its meaning, need untied.