Malingerer

The suspicious passenger
that leaks bloody evidence
onto my clothes,
rides close to my heart
like a weaver interlacing threads
as craftily as a spirited spider.

My thoughts are blistering
with anxious and yeasty fumes
in a chalice lifted to the lips of friends
at the end of a sorrowful meal.

The bruises malinger
after the bandages and steri-strips
fall away in the shower
and this right breast rests,
standing alone as a promontory
on the coast of a forgotten land.

I slip my bra over the wounds
and cinch the garment tight. I cradle the softness
in my two hands and soothe myself by singing.

The crying infant will eventually fall asleep.