Displaying the Wounds

 

Now I know that I’ve never explained

anything well, not once, not cleaning

a vulva or pulling thighs from leather 

seats in summer or baby talk or family 

recipes that call for dash, pinch, or smidgen.

Not my desperate need to show you

my wounds, for you to touch them 

like Thomas did Christ’s side but deeper,

to the wrist if you can. I call my mother and

try to explain how I miss my childhood’s

easy way of healing a bruise or a bone

or a bad memory with smooth, new skin.

I try to explain my obsession

with my Johnny apple peeler, the one 

that cores and peels and slices 

all at once. I buy the most expensive 

apples, splurge for their sugar, 

lick juice from my palm like a child.

There’s blood, too, the prongs longer 

than I remember. I want to explain 

the shape they leave. I want to explain

stigmata and dermis and all the words

I use to hide myself in language. I could

explain it all for hours without saying

a single thing that’s real. My feelings 

are so far inside myself I can’t touch them.

That’s why I want your hand inside me:

to learn the difference between organ

and sweetmeat and sentiment, 

but you never reach far enough.