I cannot say it all started that night
but that is when it became clear: dark,
full, swelling wounds of inobvious origin
bursting their seams, flying upon us all.

This is not the thing we are meant for,
not what we read in stories of educated
ladies eating yogurt and bagels, drinking
coffee in earnest talk about this problem

or that solution. But this is how it is,
as if we were meant to be unprepared —
vessels opened during the wrong course
poured out over plates and forks, unable

to save ourselves, to pull our insides
back into our bodies. Wild bruises line
our shells, define all we take in,
all we give out, all we stir together.

If I could speak to you now, I would
voice the remnant innocence gleaned
between our wounds. I would wrap it into
a cloth of kindest salve, and wind it

round us, adding our last bits of faith
and selvage longings. Together,
we would nurse off their better swellings,
pray birth our own revival.

Another for Sandra.