My friend states through a smile sweet as sugarplums
When I challenged him to a game of ‘you show me yours I’ll show you mine.’
He goes first pointing to a crescent on his chin.
At seven he decided he could fly.
Soaring into the air from his chair
he plummeted to the floor.
Six stitches, crumpled dignity and a burnished behind.
“That all you have?” I teased.
Taking off his kidskin shirt
I saw a long craggy zipper from wrist to elbow.
He said it was for love.
His first sweetheart called it quits.
A window yielded to his grief.
Turning I saw the constellations
between his shoulder blades
Left behind by the meteor showers
His father churned into his flesh
every day for so many years.
He asked for mine.
I have but one.
I keep my hair long to cover it.
My face flushed at the story.
At sixteen I got the measles,
missed the senior dance,
cried for days.
That’s it.
As I raised my hand to expose
The cruel divot on my temple
His hand cradled mine to a halt
Whispering, “that must have really hurt.”
Maybe you can trust a man who feels your wounds.
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