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.
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