I know how small a poem can be
the sharp point of a fishhook
-- Lorna Crozier, Bones in the Wings
I want this one to be
a needle. Want this O
to be a hole through which I pull
this tawdry story: they had a fight.
She skipped class. Went down to the docks.
What you call healing is flesh
grown over wire:
between ribs, I stitched her name.
A deer's hoofprint, a feather
in grass, a flash
of dew: I twist, the pain
surprises. I can't breathe
without saying her name.
A revision of Wednesday's poem
