Scar

I was writing to the “hidden” theme for Moss Piglet, and thought of this memory: (could also go in my poetry memoir manuscript) The lines are wonky in here…it should be in three-line stanzas—tercets, until the last stanza, which is four lines.

Scar

     See how the flesh grows back - Jane Hirschfield

The day I fell off my bike when my face greeted the sidewalk,

I lay there, like a stunned bird, until my brother lifted me home,  

my just-grown-in-front teeth dangling by their roots.

Mother rushed me to the dentist.

In the elevator, strangers stared at the crimson handkerchief

I held to my face.

Smelling of tooth polish and antiseptic, the dentist bent close,
gentle hands pushing my teeth back into their sockets,

binding them with a thin silver wire.

Doctor’s orders: for six weeks I ate baby food, smashed bananas,
creamy oatmeal, and milkshakes slipping cold and smooth,

through a straw.

The cut above my lip swelled, then sealed into a dark crust.

Dad caught me in a photo: straw pressed to swollen lips,

my eyes glazed with ache, and a trace of fear.

When the scab peeled and dropped away,

I touched the tender nick, a vertical dent, a puckered scar.

The pale crease in my skin, always there,

slips out of sight when I smile