If you told me your thumb
had been destroyed by a power hungry, unstoppable door,
wood thick and intricately designed to remove
your tenth marker of acceptable hands,
I would put my lips on the empty curve and exhale,
Breath filled still with get closer, get inside.
If you told me your baby toe
had hatched a graying nail, repellent and unwelcoming to you,
I would rest my head on your shin
and taunt it to make me think you were
even an ounce less (beautiful).
When you told me about the way
your past had manifested itself
an unforgiving and unforgettable path along your body,
I remained static, not wanting to make the wrongest move,
without knowing how to articulate
how much I love(d) you still.