The Scar

The itch announces the shoulder—

months later. The wound

is ready. I hold her,

that pale pink scar, wound

tight still, bunched at the edge.

My fingers map the shape.

The itch is making a pledge

that I'm trying to escape.

The body heals. The itch

gets worse when you scratch,

worse when you don't. Either which

way, you can't match

the pace of forgetting.

The scar fades. The skin

tightens. I'm regretting

that soon I won't have been

the person with this mark.

Soon I'll be healed.

And I'll be in the dark

with nothing to feel.