Katherine Fallon

DAPPLED

Skin pale as butter and prone as easily
to mar, I turn blue and green. Astride

my spine, your nails like scythes, I’ve got
marks like pie vents. I hover above you,

each thigh Dalmatian-fleshed, dully pocked
by your gentle, probing thumbs, your hips’

insistent knock against my own, a digit,
an apparatus. Having been marked,

I rejoice: evidence of influence,
proof any difference is ever made.