Bruise

Arlene Ang

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And the skin on her face
clones the fist that hit her. She is worn out
by the ghosts she wears around her shoulders—
drizzle, the missing porch light,
a cat asleep in the engine of a dead car.

The bruise can, at any moment, seep downhill
to her neck the way her father filled a glass
with apple juice and smashed it
against the wall. The wound on her left
earlobe hiccups, like a dream of drowning.

She applies pressure until she is back
in the kitchen. On the floor,
debris and a plastic bucket of chocolate
ice cream. She lays a scoop
on her wrist and watches it melt.

If this heat on her skin is the equivalent of living,
it must be because she hurts most
where other people have left
imprints of themselves, imprints that spread
small universes before being absorbed
back into her body.

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