- Amelia Parenteau
I assumed the bruises were from you,
because who else could taint the winter flesh
of my inner arm, striping lines of blue and green,
a sure mark of your furious devotion,
your mad passion to hold me, have me, press me
together, tight as your downy eyelids
over baby blue eyes.
Because, after all, it has happened before,
the summer where we walked on ice cubes,
letting our feet freeze because we knew
they would all melt eventually, anyway.
I made up fantastic stories to hide the ferocity
of our love, embarrassed and proud
when no one believed me.
This morning I opened my iron gate
to find a familiar ache. My baby bruises
have nothing to do with bed, nothing to do
with you. They’re a present from future afternoons,
from spring and home where cut green grass
rubs fresh tips of toes and I keep quiet company
with other, gentler birds.