The Things We Carry

There is a scar on my back

That I’ve never seen

It hides from doctors and mirrors

And the eyes of curious lovers

Some days it is the tickle of a fly

Skipping up my spine

A not unpleasant tug of skin

The memory of a memory of pain

Some days it’s a jagged edged dagger

Plunged deep

Almost straight through

And I, feeling nostalgic,

Push into the heat

The memory of a memory of pain