a man might talk
briefly
for hours
on the utility
of having
a more pronounced
dip
than another man
in his palm

and he might
retire
backstage
to a woman
whose cheeks
are gauze
whose ache
is mouth
whose greatest
nostalgia
belongs
to the left hand
of a pediatrician
buried
by god

not for carrying
the scar
of purpose
but for being
stuck

in a scene
of brutality
beside itself
with audience