Was it a wound, a laceration, some sort of genitalia? 
Every time he came closer, the smell pushed him back.
It sometimes moved. Kind of breathed. Kind of blinked. 
Kind of coughed. 
Sputtered.
It sometimes sang, abruptly, in the middle of the night.
Most of the time, though, he forgot it was there. Until 
it would take off and drill the air, back and forth, 
farther and closer, like a fly. 
Like a bullet.  

Then one day it stopped.

Inside him. 

He would cover it with a joke, with wit, with a boutonnière.
With doubt, with self-loathing, with acts of defiance 
that were taken for bravery.
He would cover it with a garden of irresistible pains.

With the tattoo of poetry. 
He would hide it with love. 

He doesn't remember how or when he touched it. 
First with his hand 
(it was surprisingly smooth, patient, even docile), then cheek, 
then the back of the nose, lips, slowly, wetly, until
he entrusted his eye. 

He was received longingly, 
gingerly, 
like Leda. 

They held hands.

It was so achingly beautiful it made him sad he waited so long. 

It would have been grieving if it hadn't been happiness.  

_

The Ekphrastic Review May 17, 2026