That morning that I woke up bruised,
I couldn’t quite remember what I’d done
the night before, or how I’d come
to be unwittingly so blue.
You were selfinflicted, so I knew
that it would somehow be my fault, but still
I looked for clues empty bottles, pills
but there was nothing. Nothing moved.
Your key was still inside the door,
travel toothbrush dangling on the edge
of the sink. Then I found you on the floor
unmoving and, for a moment, thought you dead.
Unmoved, I felt nothing, hard as a calloused heel
a sore behind a bruise behind a shield.
“Contusions” is the third of four poems by Andrea Rogers to be featured every other week on The Negatives.