I survey the lentillae on my hand-backs
a red worn spot at the bracelet of the wrist
turn them palm-up, visiting scars

I check my left
for the one up at the pad of my pointer
the one that runs across
connecting my lifeline with the elephant’s
eye on the side of my knuckle

                        I remember the bite of metal
                        turning skin to a gaping slot

but there’s no mark: I pry the creases… nothing
until the rest of the memory comes—

                         wood of the racing block under my hand
                         sting of pool water pulling across
                         the heel of my right hand, before backstroke

That scar remains, bunched
where the butterflies taped it together.

what odd alchemy embedded
the nosedive of the car ahead
a palmed vault over the rough guard rail
(to first aid those below)

from my beloved’s hand

onto mine?

Kimbol Soques has been writing since before she got her first typewriter at age 3. She strives to pare down to the bone, using white space like breath. Her work has been published in a variety of places, including Windhover, and has been nominated for Best of the Net.