– Justin Bond –
Imagine a body like a board,
slight and rough-hewn.
Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?
In a room we once consulted the maps
of our bodies in dark corners.
Palms dimpled from the rivets in a boy’s jeans.
The sport in choosing the next bruise.
How many little deaths have I suffered
to name this anything other than love?
The histories we slough, brittle as snake skins
in the cushions of sofas and car seats.
The weight of it, the debt of this longing.
How I splinter even as I burn.