It’s the turn that’s the worst.

Like being caught on mountain’s edge

 

in a freak mid-summer snowstorm.

How the skin exposed is always only skin.

 

There is a way hypothermia tricks

into the belief of warmth. Here,

 

take your clothes off, you will be more comfortable.

But, you never are. Hide every body part

 

which someone at some time has deemed

unworthy. Look twice, three times

 

mirror-length and longing.

 

Pray to the Saint of humidity,

of appendages, of disorder, of sex.

 

Find circumference,

wrap your arms around,

 

buy your awareness a drink, more time,

some empathy. After all,

 

every coping skill can only

take the edge of momentarily.

 

I want to lay my body next to yours

 

rub my clavicle into your chest,

meld our bones together,

 

attach our organs.

Now we are one.

 

Move slowly,

the sutures are tenuous

 

and healing

is always slower

 

than we imagine

it will be.