Ink by Michelle Collotta

With only one eye, you track your love-
you pickle her in the juices of gazing-
you make her face stick to the hair on your chest
with your pen to paper drool.

With only one eye, wipelessly,
you touch her hair, too old to be white,
you turn her to paper,
the wrinkles on her fingers become horizontal blue lines,
you will not get her back.

This is the pinkest sacrifice.
You have slid her iron-railing limbs
into the kinesis of your notebook-
rearranging her until she is sitting,
now running, no, holding you until the skin stretches white.

Here, she will lie beside you like a showerhead,
your good eye mirrored on her teeth like a leaf.
Divided, she is your remainder,
an eyelash in your palm,
a fingernail on your lip,
a canker sore healing white.