by Maggie Rue Hess

we pull the Band-Aids from your arm
eventually. I find them
when you lie beside me; the small

skin-tone circles that cover
the needle holes are forgettable
until we climb into bed.

It’s become a secret game I play:
can I spot them before you do,
before we tuck in to sleep?

With enough practice,
we might accept pain
or mere inconvenience, worry

or its hypothetical. I have a favorite
finger on your right hand,
the one I hold—not for the reasons

others might suppose:
your crooked pinky, it’s hillock
knuckle and unflexing slope.

If prayer is attention,
I am your wounding’s
disciple, a pilgrim

at the puncture sites; I take
the sacrament of the illness
and the inscrutable cure.

Maggie Rue Hess (she/her) is a PhD student living in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her partner and their crusty white dog. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Connecticut River Review, SWWIM, and other publications; her debut chapbook, The Bones That Map Us, was published by Belle Point Press in 2024.