The first coiled conceal that he rolled away
was rough like barbed wire.
His hands groped for the smooth braid
wedged between thorns,
his muscled memory
almost forgetting
the secret place to touch
to avoid injury.
And jagged cloth,
and grazed and dried-up skin
hung off the barbs
as memory;
where others had tripped and trespassed,
unsuspecting.

He pulled his hand away,
and wiped the rust stain
that had sunk between
the shallows of both palms.

The second grade which he removed
was furrowed like bark.
His fingers pushed between two grooved
ridges, forced and jutting outward.
With strain, a thread
became a widened breach
which split from neck to calf,
like an oak left
fractured by lightning.
And fleshy pulp,
and scabbed and hardened wood
fell off each side
as a suit . .
like dried blood from a wound
which he’d imagined.

The last poor parchment of which he rid himself
was his skin, ragged and pale.
With a thin blade’s edge, he etched an ark around
his exposed chest, right above the tremor.
And digging his fingers
deep into the injury,
he pulled the fold away,
like an old iron trap
now fastened to its frame.
And wretched creaks
and groans of splintering
fell outward . .
where lips were closed and kept
their distress quiet.

And through the shouting hole
his heart imagined
faint winds to be shrapnel,
ripping their way
through bone and exposed endings.

All of this he did because she came.

copyright,  © 2006 Moby Pomerance