← v9n1, Spring 2010
Poetry · Volume 9, Number 1

Birthmark

Were there a way to strip me

clean of desire, how free I’d be,

released—

the rain’s grit or

prophecy no longer

plain. But my skin is scarred

by its own burn—

by a blessing; a curse.

See my birthmark

splattered across my calves

like the map of another

country, like ink-blots marking me

a woman desirous of everything

she can see or touch—persimmons

bursting in alleys, crushed,

slick with their own juices.

Each merchant’s pyramid of

cinnamon, lips laced with sweet

dust—will this craving

choke

or sustain me?