Poem: decanter

 

My body is made from crushed little scars,

If I stood naked

What would you see?

 

Ass, tits, teeth.

look a little closely, I have no lover to tell

so I will tell you, reader, the story of me.

 

It begins at the feet, right big toe where my nail bed stays purple

From being caught between two boats on a Carolina river.

I was 19, oui, but the pain was new like a kid.

 

Then upwards, my legs.

The mosquitoes kiss my sweet blood, I get from the women in my family

Some from NC, 2018 most from Mexico, recently.

 

My tummy, two scars perpendicular

I let Chief Risk Officer of British Business Bank betray my body

Don’t worry, he will pay in dividends, added interest, he’ll see.

 

Behind that, lower back

My witches mark, how it’s lasted I’m not sure

I’ve been dead because of it before.

 

Onwards, to my arms

They tell the story of illness, of blood tests and drips of IV.

Except my burn scar when I was scalded by green tea

See, not a cry baby.

 

 suddenly, hands

fight with my brother, across my knuckle, his nail print.

A purple dot from a boy in year three

accidently stabbed me with a bendy pencil

sent to welfare, how mint, my glee!

 

My favourite two:

A line below my forefinger from cutting an artichoke.

Even they have hearts, Amelie knows.

 

And next to it another line from

flirting with a married man on a plane.

Timely was the cut, timely was the pain.

Finally my mammocked mouth

but just like a bruised peach,

the feverent misplaced memories

make me a softer fruit to eat.