"You press a scar on my back
with your finger

releasing memory into my body
like blood in water,

curled tea in hot water
uncurling. You ask about the small circles.

I tell you years ago the sky broke
and some pieces fell on me

as I slept shirtless in the sun,
my belly against the grass.

Each opens a small door in my body
if you touch with your tongue.

I don’t say any of this. I kiss your neck,
you turn away, hand me my shirt.

From your stoop I watch the sun
seep into the sky, a spill

that can never be cleaned.
My mouth opens and closes in the cold."

— Matthew Siegel, "What I Fail to Mention"