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

Scar 22

The tender regions of the brain are sheltered

in the numb. It keeps them tender, safe,

like the windows of a house in the woods

in a purity of night apart from the others.

I had a friend whose mother ended it all

on his small bed when he was off at school.

Then he slept on it for weeks. Imagine.

He was good enough to me, I guess,

but aloof from his lovers. His mother slept

among them all. It made him special,

to speak with such odd calm about pain

as someone well acquainted with his subject.

If he cried, he did not recall. If a smell

troubled his sleep, sleep alone would know.