he sent back the scars
across her face like slugs--
like the V-shapes of birds
falling into a direction. 

we take ball point pen & number them;
a catalog. 

i show her mine on
my forearms & she asks 
why i hurt myself 
so many times.
i tell her:
a catalog. 

in the backyard 
she shows me how she
used to arrange
the forest stones
into crosses

she says 
i don't know now what 
to make them into

so we scatter them,
perch on top,
feel deliciously small.

i admit to using her
name at confirmation &
all the oils spill in
the kitchen, the olive 
& the canola & the vegetable--

slipping, we hold onto
each other

she asks 
what was it
like to love nature again
after you realized how
much your old self
haunts each scab of moss?

i don't answer.

we trace the pinkish
lines on each other's
bodies, her face, her arms 
my hips, my ankles, 

her shoulders, i stand on them 
to knock the holy cruets over

praying, 

un-anoint,
i want skin.