Scientific Dating
There was a fall or a sharp edge
or a disavowal of love. There was a rug
burn or a rope burn or the face of him
popping up online like an ad
for E-trade. There was a broken arm,
a bicycle, a scraped knee and someone
who promised forever forever ago
reappeared just like he said he would.
They never really go away. They just
slide under the epidermis. If you peeled
back you’d see the roller-skate bite,
the Big-Wheel skid, the bruise
on the forehead from the bedpost
(don’t wake up). Layer by layer,
like some sort of dendrochronologist,
he dates you like old skin. He knew your
skin. He knew the moled-surface surely
but he also read the core sample. He knew
how old you really were
and you haven’t let anyone know since
and at night you have to tell yourself
It’s OK It’s Ok It’s Ok It’s OK
to try to make it be OK
but if no one knows how old
we are, how will we know when
we’re going to run out of skin?
Poem A Day 