In our honeymoon suite, I unpop my silk shirt
and show her the scars: white hoops
disrupting the perfect symmetry of my four nipples,
flowing between my chest hair
like weird estuaries.
'They turn red when I get angry,' I breathe
to my fresh-minted wife, the Danube flat and squamous
through the window behind me.
She unhasps a scab on her kneecap;
clumsy calligraphy paints her shin.
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