I know when I’m truly shot of you,
when your toxin leaves my system,
I’ll forget the silent, deadly bits;
like women in childbirth pains,
the amnesia almost immediate.
Memory applies the unguent
to the deep wound,
the one with the gaping, astonished lips,
the one with bacteria creeping in it.
The one that pustulates
when you think it’s healed,
the one that feels like a king-hit
to the stomach before the muscles are tensed.
The one with the staring eyes,
the gasping shout.
The wound that acknowledges
all of a sudden
that its existence was always intently meant;
the impacted, cracked
and fractured wound that limps.
The wound that sits in the kitchen
and finally licks itself and dabs
at the suffusions
and moves out of range
and stays that way, wary,
continually on the lookout.