by Victoria Elizabeth Ruwi

Blue beneath your skin,
pieces, not in peace,
small scalene triangles,
war angles raising up
years afterward. My fingers
trace arcs around shrapnel,
my touch avoiding stretched
skin jacketing fragments.

Bits of non-equal sides, 180 degrees
locked in, pucker your skin before
they can be safely removed, detached.
Calmly, we do not speak of the bomb,
we un-share our battles, we crumple.

Discharged, you strangle camouflage.
I, newly promoted, wrap in it.