Acquired Characteristics

my hands still bleed every winter
at just a touch, from the folds and
creases of my fingerprints, the signature of
countless summers with the rasp of corn,
sweet corn, so sweetly
it raked when
plucked and shucked,
so
important it seemed at the time to
be the man who brings in the harvest –
what else may we do, now, what
careful and careless verb
will scrawl unguessed ruin on our bodies
unending,
and how much do we love it?

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