band-aids

i started by sticking the last 
six band-aids from the box on
the far wall in my bedroom.
all in a row, standing tall 
like kills on the side 
of a WWII mustang. my brother 
collects images of war machines
on the shelf. two of the band-aids
are for him. i needed more.

we had sporadic band-aids when 
i when little. 
the bathroom with too many mirrors.
the top drawer there. 
if there were none left
i would put my thumb to the scrape,
again & again, watching the opening
laugh droplets of blood. 
eventually it would stop &
stare up at me like red pursed lips.

it's not that i need band-aids,
i just feel like we should be making
better use of them. 

the next box i bought was 
in honor of all the cardinals who hit our 
back window & broke.
eight of them. bond fires in the grass.
their band-aids on my wall, standing
at attention, i add another two,
only sideways, for both the
times that i laid down on
the double-yellow lines on main street
& no cars came.

they unearthed a craving in me,
another box, another box.
the wrappers coming off like wax moths.

to the door frames, around each crease.
the doorknob, a mosquito bite, 
i covered that too, kissing 
each corner of the house & then
placing a band-aid. outside, sealing
the mailbox shut with band-aids,
flag up & red. 

all this time i had promised
that they weren't for me,
that i wouldn't use them on 
my body. we all know what 
a  band-aid means for skin, yes? 
it means you're bleeding. use your thumb,
i say as i put three on my forearm
where there's still tally mark scars,
how do you measure time? i have
used skin but i don't recommend it.

the last two i put over my mouth.
i see god with his paring knife.
he has too many mirrors & he keeps
a mustang parked on a cloud, 
the engine too loud, even in the bathroom. 

he cuts a mouth for me & the first
words i say are be gentle be gentle.