The “y” on my forehead from
the radiator. The early cooking accident
with the knife.
The shadow from the spark on
my hand when I was six.
It turned white and melted my skin.
The odd dent on my thigh from the time
I tried to impress a girl and fell
off a fence.
The teen wounds I made myself–
tiny white scissors scars;
the popped zits, faded to a soft brown.
And the big marks–the surgeries–
my belly a long road,
and the port pushing the skin of my left chest
like a short stack of quarters
like I may need them for the jukebox.
Eliza Callard is a Philadelphian by birth and choice. A product of the Philly public schools and Skidmore College, she enjoys urban hiking, and spends much of her time trying to read all the poems. She’s been published in Hobart, Stoneboat, The Sacred Cow, Front Porch Review, and Thirteen Ways. Her website is www.elizacallard.com. Her poem “Pills” appeared in Issue No. 10 of Cleaver. “Nature Poem” appears in issue 11.
Image credit: Hamed Saber on Flickr
Read more from Cleaver Magazine’s Issue #12.