First Hickey (Poem)

paralysed from the door down.

Felt your browning suction

pulsate, pulsate, pulsate

on what’s left of my neck.

The next day, pop on a jumper -

cache of all somehow more overt.

Let them gasp as they discern

the uh, god, yes, mhm,

suspended in contusion.

Yet it always goes back to incipit:

to the hollowing rot of residence,

as it begins to heal

the stigma.