Gutted

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.