Scars Poem by Matt Mullins

I have none to speak of
nor does my father
but my mother's body
is a roadmap of sharp turns
and pot-holed detours
that could not help but lead
to breakdowns and repairs.
Hysterectomy. Caesarian.
Dual Arthroplasty: Cadillac
words that failed to stretch
the length of wounds even
as they took her there.
Each scar is a stone
chipped into time, the cracked
window of pain's blank
memory working through
the glass of her flesh revealed
and polished to shine
by the folded hands of this
agnostic prayer.