The taste of the scar
When I lick the word
On her face is not
What I expect
For a start
The stitches distract me
The stitches we sew
Into everything
And where the two skins
Join I can discern a third
Texture or colour, which
My tongue remembers
It stabs out to left or to right
It advances over
The convex relief of her eye
And strays so far as her mouth
Before returning
To the offended tissue
A rough piece of work
As if different hands
Had tied each thread
As if the butchery
Lay not in the official wound
Carved bluntly on her face
But in the healing frame
Although I’m under no
Illusions about that!
There’s always going to be
A scar, the flavour of which
If I may say so
Will always pervert the taste
Of the surrounding skin.
