Wounded

The white gauze bandage
on the back of her hand
looks … medicinal.
Hospital issued. Available
by prescription only.

When she sees me stare,
she hides it – fiercely,
not shyly. Her wound
is private property,
not to be photographed,
pitied, or admired.

Tonight when I watch
her sleep, her fist
will be curled softly
beside her head,
and the white gauze
will shimmer in dim light.
I will brush the hair
from her forehead,
kiss her gently
on the cheek,

and worry that she will
one day know how
much that bandage hurts.