Flesh knits where torn, and sometimes will forget.
I know, but I do not remember, pain,
A fact that’s past. She will not come again
except as stranger whom \I know I’ve met.
Sometimes leaves hollow, bulge, a fine white line.
Carved flesh from which I tell my history
one at a time, on beads, a mystery
each arrow, lash, sword, thorn or nail earned mine
I hang for wisdom, blind. Treed and alone.
Sorrow precise pierce chamber of my heart
We live for, we are not redeemed, by art,
for moments turned to couplets I atone
Sweet agony that marks but does not mar.
I run a fingertip across each scar.