Cut here, the first instruction,
an incision below the collarbone,
at the edge of his favorite dress,
red, darkened by descent. For you,
something lighter, a second clue:
pull ribs from sternum, open here,
unfold--no. No, that wasn't you. I
misremember soup as coffee, confuse
the calluses on your hands for his,
improper placement, thickness: you hold
different needles for different skins--
different knives, to dissect, to scrape.
It was the roughness I wasn't ready for,
though I don't imply you were imprecise.
To the contrary: he took a year & a half
to win our game. You undid me in a day.