by Laryssa Wirstiuk
On the morning radio show,
a caller says he was stung
by a bee, years ago, and still,
as an adult, he feels the prick
of pain on his forehead.
Simply receiving a haircut
or standing in cold rain hurts
space between his eyebrows.
In my car, I’m stuck in traffic
and wanting to touch this
man’s face. I’m imagining marks
of accidents, how some tragic
moments don’t even show.
What’s left to do but poke
the hole of my “innie” navel,
my first attachment to life?
Do not dare bare the midriff.
Do not speak of possible infection.
Do not reveal your name, caller,
for I, the listener, may be held
accountable for your phantom
ache to reenter that early moment.