Joanna Kaminski

oil mark. paths left open. in the space between two
rib bones, a hand (yours) reaches through me.
inside, things wet and hung pink. feminine. how at
once they sadden with your touch. i've felt you
trace the round perimeter. the print pressed
dry into tender pleura. i think i have
understood. you pull back. turn another
page and start over. the tips of your fingers, warm.