CUTS

by Yasmin Dalisay

I wake with small cuts on my hands
as if a hundred unopened letters
had slit my skin. I don't trust
the veil of last night's dream:

a hundred unopened letters
pouring bone dust. I breathed
behind a veil in last night's dream.
You were there. I was someone different,

pouring bone dust, breathing
with my tongue on your left arm.
You were there. I was someone different;
I tasted like salt, thirsty

for your tongue. Along your left arm
a blue spider crawled.
Thirsty, I tasted it. We were both salt-
stung, fingers singed.

A blue spider crawled.
Inklight fell, and I leaned toward you.
Your fingers stung and singed,
your skin was grainy, unexpected

as I crept toward you.
I was always only approaching.
Your skin was grainy, not expecting
mine to harden or shatter-

Because I only ever approached. You:
split like rock or trust.
How we harden and shatter.
I wake with small cuts on my hands.