A Scar Shaped Like a Poem

by Aimee Lowenstern

1.
When I say “you,” I speak of a ghost, a myth, a loneliness. A story passed from night to tearchoked night. There was a real “you,” and it was just him, but like identical twins there was a split, and they are separate people now.

2.
These poems are shaped not like a person but a cavern within me, which I scream into to hear the echo. I piece “you” together out of fossils I find. Mispronounced words. A soft sort of cleverness. Dark silk hair cool to the touch.

3.
I remember it all like a surgery, the moment before you go under. The fizzing vision, the expectation of pain. A haze, a sleep. The air around “you” was always thick with anesthesia.

4.
I think you were what the scalpels were searching for.

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