Tonight as I wash
the wound
on your forearm,
guide cotton swabs
through narrow channels
of blood,
remove pebbles
of crust from banks
of swollen flesh,
the result of melanoma
excision, I study
your skin.
Once smooth
as slate, and not so
readily storied,
it now boasts
streams of wrinkles,
tors of moles, lentigos, scars.
In bed, I walk
its length and breadth
with my fingers,
inspect tiny patches of dryness,
minute alluvial shifts.
Years of hiking the berm
of your sternum,
crater of sacrum,
hills, arches, ridges, and caves,
I’ve learned to cull
poisonous berries
amid those benign.
How wondrous
this stunning land, which suffers
mortal ravages
and knows how to mend,
its rocky eminences enhancing
resplendent terrain.
