Wednesday, May 2, 2012


My daughter tumbles in the dirt,
Begins to cry and then decides
She's ok and laughter's better.
I freeze every time she does this.

She's got no obvious scars yet,
But I know she'll have to get some,
Even if she's not frail like me.
Everyone has scars with stories--

A truth learned in intimacy,
As when I memorized the skin
Of her oh so lovely mother.
Beauty always carries small wounds,

Little pale patches with stories
From childhood for each one of them.
Monstrously stitched and blotched myself,
I know what a book bodies are.

I wish my daughter a rich life
In which she will tell some lover
The childhood stories of her scars.
I beg the stars those scars are small.

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