in the dip between my hip & pelvis
a patch of skin void of my rosy beige.
I press a finger hard against the supple
surface—the way my mother pressed
kisses on the black dot on the heel
of my left foot, assuring me that this
is how she would find me—lifting
the foot of every child she sees
pretending to have never seen my face.
Against my finger, I hear a metronome
pulse I still can’t keep in time with. Some nights
I want a hand on my left breast, thrumming
a beat to keep me warm. I turn to examine
the mirror for more pockets of discovery
only to find more colorless islands
wrecked along my lower back to my shoulders as if
I tried to erase my black dot & forgot where it was.
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