& it dries like red-wine scabs
on bleach-white marble
caramelized & crimson
& these cracks glaze over into
phantom healing & stainless skin
when our eyes don’t twitch
veins don’t throb
hearts don’t race
when we don’t cry out at these
split second flashes of
hair-trigger pain
when these hidden hands can’t
seize us
peel us inside out
will our skin still chafe & flake &
shine scarlet in the summertime
or will we breathe with lungless bodies
bloodless & celestial
the sky weeping as our hands graze
with none of the ancient aches
none of the paper cuts & winter-shivers
& stomach cramps
only the shadow of trickling blood
now rinsed & scrubbed away