A fallen stone or did I do it
with my fingers and need
to touch you, make an X

on your lean, scared torso.
I can't say I remember
skinning you, but knives

are in both our kitchens,
dull yet near at hand.
I like to keep mine in the sink

until I want to make incisions
or open a can—slip
it under the tab and lift,

do the rest without tools.
Those women who tore their sons—
do you recall their story?

How their regret paled
next to their howls of breaking off
fistfuls of flesh and what's underneath.

It was the wine talking; it was the heat
from the wine or whatever
chokes us before failing one another.
By: Erica Wright