this is a song
about silences
and scars,
days go by
dutifully counted
then I think, I
should call her,
it feels like it's time,
the phone sits
like a small,
wounded cat,
preternaturally still,
daring my hand
to slip over its back
in the years that
have passed, bells
have given way to
coils of wires that
make a sound like
a bell, so she'll
know I am calling
but her silences
are still made of
silence, no wires,
an occasional
defiant denial
echoes
the scar is white,
smooth, with a firm
line defining its
shape, it's a wide
bell, inverted, it's
a virulent germ, it
crosses the
hairline that
wasn't there
when I got it,
I lived through it,
I became a
woman
anyway
I touch it with
my fingertip and
it feels like there
is something
underneath
"What happened?"
I ask her. "I don't
know," spit
like a curse,
notes overlapping,
a symphony, a litany
of everything
I have ever
done wrong
it feels like there
is something
underneath
I touch it with
my fingertip,
and just accept,
it is part of me
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I wrote this for a friend. I think of it like a found poem, many of the phrases are copied and pasted from our email axchange, and I wanted her to see the poetry in what she was telling me. I wrote it with love to help heal.
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