1475-85; obscurely akin to Old English gehnycned, wrinkled,
Old Norse hnykla, to wrinkle
You nicked me
now give me back,
un-wrinkled.
In your pocket,
I became
a crone. Heart like
a sagging bag: you,
thief, like the doctor
who said I had
a hoary womb,
pierced it.
Senescent or not,
it still bled, a mystery
solved only with
a kind of arrow,
whose point
had me gasping
like Teresa with
her robes about her–
so many beautiful
folds! Each upon each
like layers of skin
one sloughs off
lifelong, flayed
by one’s own
thieving
disposition.