The Collar Line

The red stops exactly where the collar was,

a line so clean you could trace it.

Below: pale. Above: burned. A perfect law.

The cloth made a border. The cloth made a pause.

Seven hours. Direct sun. I took the shift

because someone called in sick that day.

I didn't think. I didn't bring anything.

The sun did what I didn't plan.

Now the skin is peeling in strips.

New underneath. Soft. Not ready.

The line stays sharp. A geography

of every small thing I didn't do.

When water hits it, I feel the sting.

Then it dulls. Then it stings again.

The body is a record. The body is true.

My shoulders know. The shoulders don't lie.