Bruises

Sliding off the sheet,
she reveals her body
like a guilty secret
and begins to count them all:
one, two, three ....
there upon her breast
another, four ....
and between her thighs
two long shadows
that aren't shadows ....
five and six.

Rising from her bed,
she stands before the mirror:
the inky prints
of gripping fingers
smudge her arms,
black juice has
stained her back
and beneath the florid
buttocks,
as dark and fresh as plums,
two fat rain clouds
of hurt.

Each day she counts them all,
presssing each
with thumb and fingertips:
her groans are mere echoes
of those midnight cries
and, whether in pain or pleasure,
or both, they fade
like bruises -
quickly, more quickly
than the memory
of the one
who bruised her heart.