shortly before your cannon shot onto the surgical table,
the huddled mass of you
caught a glimpse of the eventuality.
‘other’-light razor lip
down the french door hinges of your chest.

when ash from the micro fires sets,
it is that indelible ink that will plague you,
through years of intimate stares at this,
the defining mark of your forehead
when it kissed
something on the other side of divine.