Indelible
June 14 2009


Her autobiography
is written in skin.
In the laugh lines
permanently etched by her eyes.
In stretch-marks and scars.
In surgical incisions
that march across her body
like battle-hardened troops
in a long exhausting war.
And tattoos
that once belonged
to a young and foolish girl,
as reckless as a drunken sailor
in a foreign port.

She makes love in the dark.
She only looks in mirrors
fully clothed.
But her hands know,
in the shower
touching herself
— strongly scented soap
steam, billowing.
What she’d rather forget,
and takes pride
remembering.

An entire chapter inscribed
in the livid scar on her breast.
Scrubbing hard;
lightly brushing against it.