If you were to run your finger along the length
of my longest scar, you would journey hip to knee.
Nerves long dead, I would not feel the rasp
of your fingertip, dry from cold weather work
and nibbling at your nail. Still, the smooth
topography would mislead you. Beneath the knifed line,
years of scars were scalpeled and stitched
back into my thigh, hidden like the wrong body
in the right grave, like a letter read and refolded,
secrets slipped back into its tidy envelope, saved
for a day when the pain of revelation is less
than the thrill of remembering. I never said I wanted
a body absent of life lines and wrinkles, but I regret
that I cannot show you what you will never see.

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