Ask: When mother says wound / is it code for another one? / Say: I can’t even bring myself / to say the word. / I say injury. / Ask: Is wound the tear / that won’t ever really heal? / What’s missing now? Say: Another / piece. Another bandage / to cover over. / Skin of suture—slipping, tearing. / Ask: What does it mean / that you use wound / to describe yourself? / Say: I don’t even know / what the absence of wound / would look like. / Ask: Would we recognize each other? / Say: You—the mosaic gone, / more than impression—a real thing / walking. Me—with eyes only / for abscess and waste. / Ask: Do I like the grout / that holds us here, / obscuring the edges? / Say: They let us know / they’ll always be.

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