Scars
A poem by Kyra Valentine

Scars

My teenage son has four scars
The longest runs from sternum to pubic bone

Two others subsequently blossomed on his upper torso
Vestiges of lost wings,
But highly asymmetrical
As if the designer had first imbibed a bit too much

The fourth is inconsequential (almost) –
the tiny gateway for the liquid poison
Tasked to rout the cancer
(Now successfully routed, with the sharp assist of a surgeon)

Even in my gratitude
(Felt in my tired bones
and the awe for ordinariness that has returned to me at last)
The thick lines etched upon his skin
Draw my reluctant eye

My head knows:
fortitude,
resilience,
victory hard-won,
Beauty.

My heart remembers:
my unblemished baby,
my toddler with peach-smooth skin,
my tiny child, finely wrought,
Loss.

Uneasy reconciliation
And yet: the astonishing good fortune
of a child’s remission

About the Author:

Kyra Valentine spends her days in the courtroom, but she’s not nearly so judgy elsewhere.  You’ll likely find her eating cheese, haunting the Pennsylvania woods in her flowered nightgown, or weighing the merits of sun versus moon.

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