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.