Blade

By Angela Rona Estavillo

Blade
for C

Somehow I saw better like this:
eyelids heavy with your

curdled mascara, unvexed by
both his desertion and my recurrent

neoplasia. Never not armed against
the cold front, you could barely

masquerade as an islander.
So what

if I happened to take after
my namesake and appeared

to you as ophanim? You’d find a
way to faultlessly trace

my hundred waterlines,
you and your choleric precision —

teaching me that this
is how we autolyze,

engulfed by our own palilogy
and remembering

always the gratitude
for the edge.