Saturday, January 12, 2008

New Poem

Body Politic

Praise our scars,
the small gashes
and the long,
serpentine tracks
that make up
our unbeauty.
Scar, from the
Greek word eschara,
meaning place of fire.
This is the body’s politic,
reminding us that
the past existed.
Inside, what is tender
is retreaded by our living,
by wounds in the sidewalks
of dry skin. Never once
do we question
the sinkholes our bodies
drive into and repair
day after day.
No one but our
doctors and lovers
can read the map
to our hurting.

5 comments:

paisley said...

this was lovely... it made me think,,, maybe i need a doctor or a lover,, so i will stop concentrating so heavily on my own scars.....

thank you....

January said...

Thanks very much, Paisley.

jillypoet said...

Even the poem on the page (screen) is long and lanky, like a scar. Your language, as usual, is great. I just love your word choices and phrases. My favorites: "sidewalks/ of dry skin" "the sinkholes our bodies/drive into and repair"

And the beginning "Praise our scars" reminds me of a Neruda ode.

susan said...

Especially like the closing. Have you read any of Tracy K. Smith's, The Body's Question?

Kimberley (at Red Moon) said...

what is tender
is retreaded by our living,
by wounds in the sidewalks
of dry skin.

I fell into this poem immediately. It is so true that others often tread the "map of our hurting" better than we do, it's so hard to see the patterns when you are in "the place of fire".

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