Ryan Robson-Bluer

Seeing to Wounds

I watch you

    nursing bruises

    under a peeling birch

your skin purple, blotted,

 

    and note how

something beautiful rises

          from seeing vulnerability

                     lain out like

                                          this.

 

I kick off my name

      to kneel at your side,

  try to scrape some meaning

                from the words,

                from your skin –

 

it’s a feeling which arrests me;

           arrested me then,

                   still holds me now.