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Resurrection
March 19, 2012
1.
His fingers were always ferocious,
A nest of tangled thorns that were always too hungry.
He touches my body like its braille,
As if caressing was the only language he understands.
2.
I curl like an armadillo,
My arms tight around my torso.
He whispers death-threats in my ear,
As if they are sweet nothings.
3.
On my hands and knees,
I am scrubbing his shadow from my skin.
But his memory is embedded in my pores,
Never to be
removed.
© Eveliz V., Bayamon, Puerto Rico
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