sifting

She met him when cuticles didn't hurt anymore and
the world seemed to her a sifted white
of tasted forgiveness. She forgot meetings like these were alive.

And they connected, to her like the weight
of magnet she hardly recognized with her past. Her chest
beat faster than a heart.
A heart still layered, but her scales of tin dropping,
once twice. Until

he pressed her back with his hands of man, melted,
we became shame of falling hair of night. Repeated.
Then she saw her cries muted inside his neck,
you couldn't hear me, behind sweat
dropping on white, white losing color, as
he moved her like that. STOP.
And he left.

Two days, she talked to him with the voice that was
gathered for her by wood nail and blood,
and he told her he felt like shit and
she, inner thighs, calmed because she heard
an apology, not vague as men before
no, he was sorry, deeply grieved, and

I hurt, forgiving, for this time she knew how to
forgive, quickly. A goodbye I could cup and free.

~

The white is still sifted, and she knows
what is
pure,
cuticles, pulled and bleeding with flesh, cut today and washed for healing,
this time with her back,
standing and waving flags. This, she remembered childhood stories of gowns.

Blood wet then dried, peeled and clean. I will remember new.