And then it was Sunday, and I found you
beneath my hairline, caught among the new
freckles, caught in the lacing of my spine,
that frill of bone, and you a single tine
of tooth and pulp. I called you summer maggot,
a pest arrived from shoulder blades, your nave
of wing, of fall—who was it? Which friend was
vector and how long must I wait? How does
the prognosis appear? And so my questions.
The breathing tube, black and surfaced, a dun
discolor, yet still unremoved. I thought
perhaps you were a gift; a relic, hot
and aching, something placed with cannon bone;
flame, knife, squeezed from my neck all slick and grown.