Elizabeth Wray
A MAP OF SCARS
I look at my body
and at the body
which has lain next to it
on the bed of adventure
and survival
I look at the scars
we have got–
small violences
from believing too much
or not enough
All that senses moves out from the body
and comes back hurt
moves out from the eyes into the offering of the land
but sees only what is taken
moves out from the nose into each new season
but can't lose the death smell of the one just passed
moves out from the mouth to fall in love again
and finds not the warm raw flesh of ass and breast
but roasted rump of cow
and a lump of feathers gathered near the mouth of dreams
moves out from the ear into the rooms
of other peoples' answers hoping
the right one will curl around its question mark of flesh
but finds it mostly strays into remembered rooms
or rooms of possibility where there is little talk
and no one ever questions
These are the open wounds
that bleed inward on common themes
whose only temporary cure is
more of the same
This is the base of the neck and the chest cave
that wait to cradle the weariness of heads
This is the belly button that wishes to forget
