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Puzzle Skin

 

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.

 

 

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