At first I loved the wound because it was yours.
A slit in your upper shoulder,
A back porch door through to your chest.
I had been told about the wound,
And been worried about it,
And then I saw it,
And once I tended to it.
I gingerly removed the bandages,
Which were slightly moist with pus and blood.
I made sure not to tug the tape
Too quickly, lest it chafe
The sensitive area, or too slowly,
Lest it delay your feeling of relief.
I looked at it without speaking for a while.
Breathing and humid, it was shaped like a runty almond.
“It looks fine,” I said,
As I tenderly rubbed ointment on it with two fingers.
This would help the wound heal faster.
But as I rubbed you gave the wound to me
Unknowingly, and I became its ward,
And suddenly I regretted the ointment,
And I wanted to scrape it off with my fingers,
Or dilute it with my spit,
So that the wound would never heal.
I loved the wound because
It was mine,
You had given it to me unknowingly.