Pen marked the footpaths

of the incisions to your

skull they planned to make the

following week in the hope

they could save you. It was

so strange to see you head

half-shaved and dashed with

ink lines, as if the topography

of you were so easy to

trace. We draw ourselves

out, lives in complicated lines,

but perhaps we are quite

simple after all. I wondered

then if this would change

you, if the you I knew

would be cut upon and

turn out not to be

you at all. We

are so fragile in our

assertions, though we claim

to be so strong. It feels

wrong that we could have

ever been so sure.

On fitful nights I

imagine what would

happen if they reassembled

your jigsawed skull differently,

or solved the puzzle of you

another way. That man

with lines mapped on bone

became so distant to me

in those moments, though

the infinitesimal accuracy of barely

millimeters foretold of

steady hands and inroads

many times gone.

A week, and I’ve already lost you.

In the same room I

wake up as you go under,

and I anticipate the

strangeness I will meet

when deconstruction is done.

Your hair will grow back a

poppyfield to cover all this day

has exposed. The part of you

they take will be my memory.

Together in reconstructed trust

we will grow old.