My body is richly scarred
As if caught in an avalanche.
It’s crisscrossed and barred —
Lines of sewn flesh branch,
Nose and brow bear hyphens,
Once pink areas, burned, blanch.
Time ravages us with its sins,
Which have nothing to do with will,
But the vulnerability of skins.
Not one baby’s molecule is still
In us after fifty years, discarded
Without changing us, until
We are perfect again, unmarred.
