Scar Gallery

The serrated kiss

of a tuna can lid.

Tin snips ringing

the ring finger a little more

than just lightly enough

to keep the nerves

guessing. One wing

houses every game

of five-finger filet

ever played

stippled in the medium

of its aftermath.

The other holds

canvases of children

with staircases

notched into their limbs.

Alcoves you never entered

loop scenes from biographies

you could’ve stumbled

out of, their sounds

you know as wall,

then skull, a knocking

that’s its own language,

the needle’s pinch,

the numb swell

of anesthetic, time—

the grind of your hand’s

gears getting reset.

Your knuckles still wear

every drum they pounded,

every note knocked

from them. Every wound

you weren’t born with

asks you to wear it.