a scooped out watermelon on a yellow sunlit table
Molly Matalon

Why I Left the Garden

A poem for Sunday

After I lost my breast, I became a woman
sutured by a kind of knowledge.

All day I moved as if walking was no different
from falling. I owned the potholes
and the riddled sky. I owned nothing at all.

Even from far away,
I could hear the record skipping.
Time was running out  
of hands. Of faces.

The first time a lover traced
my scar, fingered its river  
and kissed its groove, I woke early
the next morning and, quietly, I left.