Elbow Geography

Three mornings since the doorframe met

my arm, an argument.

Now, getting dressed, I stop and trace

the new geography.

A bruised plum,

deep, almost black in its center,

then fading out to a quiet sea

of greenish yellow.

It maps the impact,

a history in shifting hues.

Not pain now, just the slow tide

of color, leaving its mark.

A silent progress,

under the skin.

A slow weather system,

moving through me.