The two sides of my arms

The tops of my arms:

covered in hole pricking hairs.

A thousand porcupine quills

growing on human skin—

a violation of genetics and evolution.

When I look at them, they stand

in a fear that goes both ways—I

will cut them off.

The bottoms of my arms:

scarred from wrist to elbow.

History reformed from mind to matter,

but worse, a keepsake from her.

When I look at them, I stand

in a shock that lasts too long—they

are almost gone.