bustling with bombs, with Bond girls,
 
          with balmy weather. Fawns
 
stayed very still, immovable even from fright,
 
          and their mothers taught them never to stray
 
into the road. We sat perched on chairs, binoculars in hand,
 
          spying their spots, nestled next to land mines.
 
In the bathtub, I peel lengths of skin from my legs,
 
          like wallpaper whose glue has gone.
 
Layers beneath layers, exposed and raw. Shimmering.
 
          These are the places the bugs like best,
 
when I lie down and hide myself like a fawn in the grass.
 
          You and I crawl on our knees (my left leg dragging behind me)
 
following rabbit trails, watching for blood. Our noses itch.
 
          Our hands rashy, our eyes afraid to close.