Seeing Something Poem by Peter Neil Carroll

I start with the eyes, see something
of myself that sparkles when I make a quip;
the crease of her mouth, the teeth, the gap,

how her thin upper lip covers the healthy bite
she reveals only later when she really cracks up,
and I discover the color of her lips is the same

as the tips of her breasts. But what keeps my eye
is the surgical scar, two-inch keloid near the nipple
that insists laughter won't last forever.

I touch the healed rim furtively, unready
to admit the skin's fear is my own; each dimple,
nick, blemish, the body's mark against eternity

summoning. I cling, press into her folds, pull
to the wound like a man diving off the dock,
geysers of seawater tossed toward heaven.

Afloat on the bed, seeing something of myself,
I say, You're a lucky woman. She, seeing something
of herself, hangs on, saying, And you're a lucky frog