The Map

The paper gown is cold against my thighs.

I sit and wait for the man with the light,

counting the tiles on the ceiling grid

until the room feels a little too bright.

Then I see it, near the bend of my arm,

a dark, irregular ink-stain of skin.

It wasn't there when the summer began;

I don't know when the shadow moved in.

It’s a period placed at the end of a thought,

a sudden full stop in the middle of me.

I trace the edge with a nervous thumb,

wondering how much more there will be.