Scars

 

Mine come mostly from

chicken pox,

dangerous toys of yesteryear,

a love of bouncing motion,

and my own carelessness,

which I wear as marks of toughness,

badges of tomboyhood.

I still feel for them

from time to time,

fingering the reassurance

of the body’s braille,

valleys and mountains, covered, unseen,

gouges and gashes and grooves,

raised spots and welts,

banners of youth and life.

My dentist said, “If you

get through childhood

without a cracked tooth,

you had a boring childhood.”

I suppose I feel the same about

the scars.

 

For the month of May, I will be posting something daily, namely some kind of respond to The Daily Post’s daily prompt or some other prompt, unless a poem or post visits me of its own accord, unbidden and welcomed.