Wound / Corinne Wohlford Taff


If I have loved, it is mostly
because that is what I have
called it.

The night I left, you pressed three
scars to the inside of my wrist and said
It will be different with you gone.

Later I marked time by their fading.

But it was lazy, making you beautiful
that way. I was reading words
backwards—lover, almost
revolve, almost

and I couldn’t believe in things.

The magnolia
makes me cringe: the perfect cup
of its opening. Its center
the deepest color. I love—
love it—

but the mind,
unhinged, and unhinged,
is substituting.


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