“it was her wrists. they were beautiful.”
- valerie page, v for vendetta

soft underbelly of a fish, full of flesh,
is the spot where veins peel off and breed,
is the spot where she hides wrinkles in old leather
under the scents of lavender and libraries.

nobody falls in love with that anyway,
soft skin showing all its scars.
you see what you want in the bone,
fish-ribs forming a pit in your stomach,

twisting it like a cherry stem you prove your worth,
while she gives her wrist a flick and brings you in.
your eyes open wide, you stare at that spot,
fly-fishing lure on a line, holding you steady,

hiding the rot that builds underneath.

the long thin fingers of a girl of twenty-four
wrapped tight around the handrail of the L-train
bright-blue-eyed but for the temple bruise

                   he loves me
                   and the mess I made

everything tattooed (everything everything)
invisible on her cheeks and in the hollow of her shoulderblade
her lower lip and wristbone
but for the temple bruise
darker by two shades

          a four-in-the-morning-night cottoning her tongue
          not-the-first of many and her long thin fingers
          white-knuckled

          little joys to light on the handrail
          not his warm-hot-ice-hard chest
          or his loud voice (woulda been real handsome
          if his eyes weren't so cold)

but for the temple bruise

                                                         ­   i
                                                           ­ fell
                                                            in
 ­                                                           love so many times that day
                                                            t­he first sunday of its kind--not drenched
                                                        ­    in imperceptible airdrops

                                                       ­     the red-brown beard of the business suit
                                                            ­and the freckles undermining the punk-rock
                                                       ­     vibe of the dark-eyed fox-girl

                                                       ­     but the thin white knuckles
                                                        ­    and the temple bruise

                                                         ­   --none more than her