I bruise the way the most secreted,
most tender part of a thigh exposed
purples then blues. No spit-shine shoes,
I’m dirt you can’t wash from your feet.
Wherever you go, know I’m the wind
accosting the trees, the howling night
of your sea. Try to leave me, I’ll pin you
between a rock and a hard place; will hunt you,
even as you erase your tracks
with the tail ends of your skirt. You think
I’m gristle, begging to be chewed?
No, my love: I’m bone. Rather: the sound
bone makes when it snaps. That ditty
lingering in you, like ruin.