Surgery

By , Truro, MA
Snow stings at my vicious honeyed lips
that lick and lick and kiss the wound,
for they always forget too soon
the little malignant bits that twist us through -
the ones I groan and whimper at when I'm alone.

Now, when our shoes crunch together through the frozen skin
I can't say out loud (or to myself - I've tried)
the scalpel blade we need to stay alive.
Instead, I stitch us up without looking in,
so sweet with anesthetic my teeth and tongue do drip.





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