by Faye Chevalier
and matchless eyes,
and paint my fingernails
green with dead grass? and i’ll fill my shallow nooks with weathered soil.
and i’ll build a slight-sense of slighter-still stricture.
and i’ll scour the rough edges, rid myself of friction.
i’ll inscribe my spoken name
in curative, indiscretion-al lettering,
ribbon-ing across the nape of my neck.
and i’ll wring these upper-baritones,
and their occasional high e’s,
finding themselves wholly wreathed in
with a finality sounding something like
what Connecticut should’ve sounded like.
and i’ll seal stacks of these
and dislodge my bodily scars
to their rightful spaces—
your right, down an inch or so,
your left, up nine,
your right, up four.
see, Noreen needled a snowflake
into my reeling expose-ed skin,
and now i can finally remind myself of impermanence.
and i can only assume it makes some kind of difference.