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
scar.

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

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

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