We were cutting out the O
from the word 'love'
when my dad handed me the scissors
head bent, he left no footprints
on the snow as
my unskilled hands
spelled the rest of the word
in such grotesque figures
that only Cyclops could read.
I had only childish exclamations
or the mess I made with love
dressed in the white silk dress
my dad bought and sent
so he could scrub his blackened heart clean
in the Alaskan mines.
The unfinished word
carved on my skin
branded on my lips
like hot coals
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