Holding It Together

The nurse is late. I'm sitting on the chair

underneath a clock that's lost its beat.

I'm looking at the black and nylon hair

tied into the softness of my meat.

They look like dead ants frozen in a row,

keeping the divided skin in place.

A jagged, salt-crust seam that’s trying to grow

back into the memory of a face.

I touch the iodine, the yellow stain,

and wait for her to come and snip the line.

It’s funny how we use a little pain

to fix the parts that won't stay intertwined.