I’d ask about the Death Mark,
then every other tattoo
you’ve gotten since the last time
I saw you naked.
And I’d want to hear all the stories
even the ones from before.
I’d tell you about
the tattoos I want to get
and about the birthday mark
on my left leg that I didn’t know
I had because I have never been
as tan as I got this summer
and I’d remind you of a scar
on the same leg, perhaps you’ve forgotten.
We could talk about
the scars I haven’t gotten
and any of yours
that are new.
Finally, I’d stop undressing
you with my eyes and
begin undressing you
with my hands.
We’d stop just short
of going all the way
because that’s how I want
it to be.

Were you drunk?

You’ve got the death mark on your arm
right next to that scar that you swear did no harm.
I hate it.
I love it.
It adds to your imperfect charm.

But you’re afraid of snakes
and so that awful tattoo breaks
my heart in pieces.
It never ceases
to bother me that you’re fake.

*Note: I’m not totally feeling this one, but I am determined to finish this Intro to Poetry course and to attempt all the assignments. I think it’s good to stretch yourself as a writer sometimes, even if you don’t love the results.


maybe its too personal today
but isnt everything i write

mothers day last year
j noticed it and asked
what happened mama
glancing over at his dad
i replied
mama got hurt a long time ago
oh im sorry j said
and he kissed it
to make it feel better

a few days ago he noticed again
mom youre swollen
no baby thats a scar
oh ok and he left to go play

someday ill have to tell him
something more
something real
about why mamas body is covered
in thin little lines

but how can i tell him
without breaking his heart
the same way
his fathers heart broke
with each little line
the same way
our Father wept
as every drop
blood and tears

*In response to Scars.