the Devil is in the details, They say.
maybe the ugliest scars are formed
in the irrelevant
a tragedy, the moments like
faded pictures you can't find strength
to throw away.
the scars we See:
some tiny pock on an elbow,
or a raised white line across an ankle perhaps,
almost invisible, we trace
again, and again, and again
with searching eyes, fingertips, minds,
it's a funny sort of superstition.
the ones that never heal, i think, are always tied to the worst moments
these tiny bumps always find a way
a zipper, a bracelet, a stocking.
the silent mouths on our bodies whisper
"you may not forget.”
scraped knees and dizzy first kisses, perhaps
are the mysterious constants that move life forward,
the funny thing, i guess, the enchantingly hilarious part,
is that the scars that loom gray and purple and pregnant
with shadows, so striking to the beholder,
are invisible to others in the sun.
most of our darkest scars are hidden
beneath clothes or
buried beneath infinite topography of human skin
speckled with freckles, moles, blemishes,
kissed with tiny hairs
and textured liberally with more mundane battle wounds;
the thumb-crease from the car-door
the pink and silver sliver
from when the knife slipped slicing something
for dinner on an otherwise lovely night.
the more fantasy-oriented among us may cherish the small pink auras
left behind by spider bites.
battle wound enthusiasts, breathless
on ravishing delightful adventures
caress them for good luck like
coveting the blush of a hickey on dewy skin.
a girl like that always stands out,
tiny child on the cusp of womanhood
faint smile glowing through her adopted aloofness
and too much makeup.
her fingers move over a blotch
of skin hidden by cheap concealer,
or fumble with the fold
of her flatteringly tight turtleneck,
and for an instant,
the sleeping vixen wakes up
and looks out through eyes still clouded with sleepy innocence.
no matter how clueless, plain,
or even flat out unappealing
the boy was,
the memory is sweet. Sometimes,
imagination does play a part.
a woman can't survive unless
she reminds herself
of the excitement, the urgency, the danger,
and the heat
that marked her as its own.
Somewhere, in the surge of hormones, wants, needs,
a rare thing is created;
a memory encompassing all sensual and emotional aspects of fulfillment,
each shadow in stark light,
beneath your feet.