By Kate Miano
When he runs his hands over me, one part
juts out metal:
A freshly tilled valley,
by which his touches can trail
to other pieces of my topography.
Punctuating my torso for five years
it’s become as much appendage
as an arm.
A bejeweled wound, I carved myself
to map beauty.
Like a secret treasure I know it’s there
before anyone sees it.
My body’s North Star.
Kate Miano (She/Her) is a waitress/editor/writer/occasional nanny. She has an English degree from Suffolk University and has been previously published in magazines such as Venture, Overheard Lit, and Dynamis Journal. She lives in New York City and enjoys yoga, rooftops, and art museums. Kate can be found on Instagram and Twitter: @katemiayes.