The Accidental Inkblot, Or, The Stain I Was Born With

Under the fluorescent glare,

undressed, just for a second, my own skin

a stranger. And there it was,

that splotch. On my wrist,

where the pulse

is supposed to beat

its steady drum.

Not round, not neat. A kind of muddy brown,

like spilled coffee, or

dried blood, maybe. A Rorschach

of nothing I could ever read,

though I’ve tried. Pushed my thumb

against it, like trying to rub out

a mistake. It felt

older, somehow, today.

A map of places

I’ve never been, or

a secret held

by cells that don’t

know me anymore.