I would say mottled but that’s not quite true.
Mottled is stormcloud, is sculpin, is pig iron.
You’re more like curdled, if skin were capable
Mottled is stormcloud, is sculpin, is pig iron.
You’re more like curdled, if skin were capable
of spoiling—ridged & risen & birthday-balloon
red, never the same two days in a row.
My MS specialist says driving the needle
deeper will lessen the rippling sting
of you (unless I hit muscle; then you’ll knell
through my arm for a week). She assures me
you’ll vanish one day. A phase, like the spangly
cowgirl boots I outgrew when I was nine.
We’re stuck a few more years in this uneasy
marriage, but the truth is, I’ve grown to love
you, my blood-twirlers. My little spider-bites.
Every time I press the plunger down, you throb
brave, brave, brave, & I believe you. You’re the proof.
