The Line

I fell asleep in a lawn chair

after the food, in the afternoon—

woke an hour later

with one arm hot.

The other arm fine.

Pale, sleeve-covered the whole time.

I drove home with the good arm on the wheel,

the burned one in my lap,

the skin already tightening,

doing what it does.

In the bathroom I found the line—

upper arm, exactly where the sleeve ended.

Red below.

Pale above.

The sun had been precise about it.

I stood there looking

at where my attention stopped.

At where the fabric had been

and wasn't anymore.

Put some lotion on.

In the morning it was darker.

I could feel it before I looked.

One arm and then the other.

The line between them

still exactly there.