Hole

"Why does yours look like a hole?"

My nephew asked. It's my role

to have an answer. But I

just stood there. I didn't try.

Forty years on this body

and I've never looked. A body

is strange when you finally see it.

The fuzz. The darkness. Conceit?

No. Just strangeness. Just proof

that I was once attached. A roof

over something that's long gone.

The cord. The connection. Now none.

He left. I stayed in the mirror.

The light made everything clearer.

This small hole on pale skin.

This proof of where I've been.

Before I was separate.

Before I could navigate

my own life. Before I could

forget the connection that should

still matter. Before I could

ignore this small darkness. Good

question, nephew. Why does mine

look like a hole? Like a line

between who I was and who

I am now. Like proof that's true

that I was once someone else's.

That I was once part of. These

small holes are reminders.

These small indentations. Finders

of meaning in the strangest places.

In the darkness of faces

reflected in mirrors.

In the things that slither

away from memory.

In the body's history.