Skin
We tell my niece the scar
from her left hip to the soft frown
of her right rib cage is a shark bite,
as if tumor removal is scoffworthy,
as if a shark’s jaw is the shape
of a forsaken jumprope.
My father had a scar straight down
his sternum with two vertical nicks
lined up like squinted eyes below
his nipples. When I was my niece’s age,
he’d make the face in his stomach whistle—
pointer fingers pulling and pressing
the edges of his belly button—for a laugh.
Scars need their own fiction. We know
the truths but play along, try forgetting
our insides were broken, can break, will
also break. Welcome, this world of sharp
teeth and puckered lips—of hospital beds,
remote controlled, resembling stubbedout
cigarettes. Welcome is what I say to my
love, as we map out each other’s bodies,
discover and tell stories of every unnatural
gash. We heal, are healing. I say, my family
has faulty guts, and he places his ankle
on my lap, feels around until he finds—
this is from when I stepped in a shark jaw
my brother left on our floor. My hand under
his hand, he instructs me how to touch
his childhood, something that hurt once,
allows us to remember pain from a safe distance.
