Like Silt

I think about the small yellow bruises
on my upper arms and neck, the sides of my breasts.
Like little round stamp marks
these places you bit
stopping before the pain.
My skin so white after winter,
bruising like a piece of fruit
a dropped pear,
a nick in the skin of apple—
sweeter than you'd expected.
Like your smell, clean boy.

I write this days after
we were together,
on the bus going downtown
a woman in the seat ahead of mine
holds a bouquet of gardenias.
Gardenias on the bus!
This lovely smell
and already I've lost yours.
Like my mouth forgetting its way with you,
losing the directions.

Right now I could make a map
of these bruises,
these tiny landmarks, from one to another.
A journey underneath my sweater.
A little navigation
to disappearing places,
islands eroding
because today my tender marks
are starting to fade,
slipping like silt,
falling for
the ordinary suited,
unbroken world.

— Sasha Eakle