The Scars

The scars tell a story of steel and heat,

of nights spent feeding hungry ovens —

my left arm a poem written in reds.

Like all hot, bright things

the scars flare and fade.

I could name them but don’t,

these small flames that brand me as working class —

warn the wealthy I might be the type of girl

who sings demon songs.

In the mornings, the sun

slants through the windows

and signs its name across the hurt.

Fire always finds its own.

Wherever you are

roll up your sleeve and speak to me

in the language of burn.

Let us learn each other’s radical cadences.

Let us watch our little anarchies ignite.

*

Originally published in The Packingtown Review

I wrote this when I was working as a full-time baker for a very demanding employer. Unlike the baker who trained me, I would constantly burn myself when I worked third shift--to the point that I kept bandages and Neosporin in my backpack. Oddly, I occasionally miss those long, grueling nights.