Epithalamion

That October morning (my wedding day),
I lay soaking, flesh scalded through water
as if it could emerge virginal again,
as if past encounters could be washed away.
You did not see the blood wind down my calf,
the razor’s ritual wound. I pictured
the blood that should have been, my wedding night,
white sheets sullied with red, a crimson path—

if I had still something to lose. Measure
your loss daily by what you leave behind.
What’s lost is essence, is nothing you can find.
What’s lost is nothing more than the pleasure
of a locked door, the promised morning, the bath
with no one else in it, yourself intact.