Contusions

by Len Kuntz

The sky is such a beautiful bruise of brutal blue-metal-pink. It reminds me how there can be loveliness in pain, that even art is a kind of contained torture. Uncertain, I look to the horizon while pangs of hope spike my heels the way my feet will tingle when they fall asleep, go numb.

In the morning you visit early before the family comes. Your kisses are light like moths upon my bandaged wrists, your breath syrupy in my ear. You say, “We can make it.” You tell me, “Nothing’s so bad,” and I close my eyes, hearing the unblemished beauty of your promise new for the first time, taking your fingers in mine, holding on, believing.