It’s wicked to admit I love these bruises,
the set of fingerprints along my hip
that an FBI Agent could dust and use
to track him down. I love the boy-stung lips
from hours kissing, lips soft, but his whiskers
grown rougher with the hours into night,
and rougher still, we move together, quicker,
as if our muscles’ work brought on the light.
Mornings like this, I’m torn between two notions:
Are love’s inscriptions like a form of art,
or injuries incurred from constant motion:
tennis elbow, carpal tunnel, arrhythmic heart?
And you should see my scars I sit alone,
a glass of wine, a napkin, and my pen.
– Moira Egan