Scar

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.