Wednesday, 15 January 2014


I trace the scar on your
knee, that was made
when you were eight;

when you fell
from the apple tree
in your back garden.

I touch it gently,
the skin pale, and
silky, sensitive still;

I want to eat your scars,
peel them off like communion wafer,
let them melt on my tongue;

chew you up and spit
you out, smooth and clean
like a polished stone.

But you are you:
scarred and whole.
The stars stare down

enviously upon you.
Now crown my firmament:
let me take you home.

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