No one records what the body suffers.

Just now the birds fly past

your window under cover of clouds.

The nurses prod and cajole.

Their voices caress your face.

They want you to stay.

They love you.  The ones

who were here before

put their mouths on your skin.




Your skin is a map

of cream and red and blue-

black.  Blood pools inside

and scars the surface.

Even the nurses are shocked.

I look but am not fazed.

I know the story.  In the grave

it will not matter.  If you stay,

the map will change.

These wounds are roads

and we find our way.