You Asked Me to Mark You But I Was the One Marked

I knew you planned to be gone a long time when you asked for a stamp in your passport, even though it wasn't required any more. It was like the other typical souvenirs you took: postcards and a cheap mug, a few digital photos of your face in close-up, smiling, with me in the background. You didn't stay long enough to learn the customs of my country, you were scared to taste the regional delicacies and too timid to try out the language. And lest I choose the wrong words to describe your visit, lest I make a mistake in the photo captions, I won't say what it was you were looking for when you crossed the border into my uncertain nights, but I will say I knew you were only passing the time until a flight was leaving for some other enticing land. Our parting kiss was too brief; the cab was waiting downstairs; you were impatient to be going. I touched your skin with the brand and your flesh yielded like a belt to the notching knife; I was sore for weeks afterwards.