Let me start again, here,
where a woman ends.
The wrists were involved.
Also the leg-tops, the delicate skin
of the inner arms,
anywhere she could drag a sharpness
Postscript.
Sometimes she would cut herself, then go next door
to the neighbor's house --
a drywall finisher out of work
because this was the recession --
and present her arms to him
shyly, like a...
Ask the girl with the dirt in her mouth.
Ask the girl who is all poem
now, all shapes between the shapes
she carved into her flesh
like a tattoo artist falling in love.
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