← v19n2, Fall 2020
Poetry · Volume 19, Number 2

Scar 21

The scar on my brow was a third eye

once, and I gave the stranger my wallet,

and he took with it my school ID.

Just why he cut me, I will never know.

I was such a tiny motherfucker

and a motherfucker’s precious stone,

and though the cut was just a minor then,

it ran into the cradle of my eye.

It will always be that small, this cut.

It will always flinch at the stiletto

click of branches broken in the wind.

When I open a lamp, I open a well.

When I close, it closes, and the well

of light, because it is abandoned, grows.