Marlin M. Jenkins

Puncture

there are many ways to break, fewer
ways to suture. i wish to split
the difference; instead i split open
often. i hate my pores for how they prove
me porous, though being permeable
isn’t all bad. my body for now still holds
all the water once flushed from jesus’ side.
at the bus station, a stranger and i
take turns expelling fluid from our noses,
as one does in such cold. we exchange
blessings. we share the same air. outside,
someone has dropped a handful
of plastic straws. there are so many
devices to help us take something
into our bodies. the human head has seven
openings. i begin to catalogue all the ways
i’ve felt abandoned but cannot bear
to share the list. i cannot stop
saying sorry, even to the concrete
i trip over, even to the shards
of myself on the bedroom floor
as i cut my fingers gathering them back.
even to the spear ready at my ribs.
i lift my shirt, promise not to wince.