Accidental Damage

Sometimes at night my throat pulses
like a rope, and I count the beats
into the still room. Breathing slowly
across the dark knot, I think
of cool slivers of surgical wire
and how such delicacy keeps his blood flowing
and for that I'm grateful. So many times
I’ve analysed his past and mine, carelessly
twisting my hair into spirals, or doodling
filigree patterns on the phone book.


Some nights I lie awake wondering
if he shaped me in an accidental way,
not meaning to pick or complicate -
like the way I have of fiddling
with hair and pens and words; or
if I unintentionally say some things
the same as him, or move
restlessly round a room, like he does;
or if my heart's been damaged, too,
as his was.



Janine Pinion

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