by Kerry Hammerton

The skin on the underside
of my wrist looks soft and
friable. Not white but pale

like buttermilk. A tendon
stands out like a painter
straining to keep a boat

tethered to the dock. Veins
and arteries run alongside,
secondary roads, roads that

transport blood. I know enough
to cut down, to cut vertically,
not across, not horizontally.

I would prefer, though, to wade
through breakers to reach
a wide and demanding ocean.


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