that wound without you (for sagal)

perhaps
part of you
hated me over dry months
and mornings where wet eyes
fed you like oats cut with steel
that you wish to portray
i have asked myself
if words i’ve woven for you
were burned on a pyre
made with those fingers
as delicate as a peacock’s tail
would there be that part of you
that consigns me to a punishment
of partial neglect
for turning away
i
still do look upon that wound without you
healed but burning
like one’s joints upon the fall of rain
or by a secret name
remembered only on mornings that burn
with wet eyes
as flags of your caring

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