The surgeries left long roads
where numbness travels
like typhoid in wagon trains.
Last time, I had the fancy stitches
that dissolve inside your skin:
I’m sure they’re sweet as sugar.
Hairs fall out one-by-one
like days from a calendar,
like the man who escaped from behind bars
by cutting off small pieces of himself
and sending them out with the mail,
until all that was left imprisoned was a heart.
Once outside, he reassembled
his bloodless body, and killed again.