fall 2018 / Poetry 2018 / volume 49

Skin—Ronald James Pelias

It’s not the knife,
the blood,
or the wound,
but the thin red slit
settling into

It’s not the blemish,
the mark,
or the finality,
but the reminder
two bodies

It wasn’t the flesh,
the raw,
or the deep reach,
but the dead stillness,
her hand,
my bare chest.

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