Three Types Of Closure, Or Love Lessons From The Wound Ward
the stab and slide
of first love, and a cut that closes
before you know it gaped.
Your thin skin is no barrier
to the clean seaming,
the simple press of lips
that vanishes with time
into a shining silver line.
An evolved accident, as inevitable
as a platypus, or your unending hunger
to cleave to the lover who keeps you
sleeping on his floor, too fat for his bed.
Smelling the dust of orange shag carpet
against your cheek, you tell yourself
many gashes close from the outside in,
skin healing before the flesh.
You’re left open on purpose,
with cold wind singing, seeming endless,
over the tender hole. Deep and shock-
purple, your wound is kept
exposed. Anyone who looks is invited
to this marriage, of the formerly subcutaneous
to air. You can’t touch, but you must
carry this absence, feel your heart beat
in its pit, present it again and again
to inspect. It feels like all you have
for anyone, and opposite of a gift.
Lisa Schapiro Flynn has poems published in journals including The Tishman Review, Radar Poetry, Bluestem, The Crab Creek Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, 13th Moon: a Feminist Literary Magazine, and others. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2019 and 2020, and received the Honorable Mention for the 2018 Crab Creek Review Poetry Prize. Lisa has studied at Bread Loaf, VQR, Eckerd College, and Poets House. She has an MFA in poetry from Emerson College. Lisa lives in the far suburbs of New York City with her family.