Flesh Memory
       

What spectre has fleshed out such cruelty,
that small ruby hard in your chest—

the rupture of childhood? Sunday's best
never good enough, all abandonment.

Such a fire to stoke with delicate fingers.
You saw it once, you swore: the whip

cracking right before the horse's nostril,
only you'd remember a lion's pussing nose

and the leather licking it split. The light
here failing, you kept the ringmaster

beside you—shadow-boxing in the ring
of your own red circus, a raw steak

of fuck humming metallic as the sound
barrier brightens your blood again.

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Copyright © 2019 Caroline Crew All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission