In the middle of summer, he removed
his shirt and stood next to the open hood,
engine steaming, when I first observed
the Frankenstein’s monster tattoo
covering his right bicep, broken down
into puzzle pieces, part of the lip and neck
and forehead missing. I imagined how
it might look, the lower jaw and neck
revealed beneath a shorter-sleeved shirt,
how the face might look when he
was having sex, how the forehead glistened
with sweat, how it would feel no different
under my fingertips, but somehow should.