Poems - Issue 6
There’s a vertical track in the cushiony flesh of my left lobe,
where a looked-after child on my lap caught and dragged,
not meaning to, a gold hoop to rest deep down. For months
I was lop-sided until I summoned up the nerve to ease the ring
from its softly bedded place and leave my ears forever naked.
All my scars are ridiculous: negligible traces of mishaps,
like the sickle on my index finger memorialising the waste
of a whole block of White Stilton cheese, at a time when
it mattered, the slipped knife having conjured such
a startling amount of blood; or the perfectly round dent
bored in my left knee from when I misjudged my jump
over the garden rake I’d convinced my cousin could do
for a skipping rope; or the silver thread in the cross-hatch
on my right hand from the time I missed a step in the dark
of a poetry cellar and fell on a glass I hadn’t had a sip from,
painlessly severing the tendon which operates the thumb.
It was fished down with something like a crochet hook
and reattached as though I was a pot doll whose rubber bands
had perished. I imagine there’s a scar from the cut when I had
no push at all left in me but that’s private and even I can’t see it.