Camisha L. Jones
Blessed be the scar on my right knee,
the territory it clams as landmark,
preserving the day this body
plus that car didn't mean dying.
Blessed be the body
knowing to get back up
from the ground when it can.
Blessed be the scarred geography
of my left arm,
the mapped history
of intimate touch with irons,
so much popped oil,
the warm insides of that one stove.
Blessed be all that teaches what can happen
between flame and refusing to see what's there.
Blessed be the scar in the lowest valley of my back,
the red wagon I was never supposed to be in,
the swift pull of someone else's hand.
Blessed be my mother's warning,
my foolish disobedience.
Praise for now knowing what's wise
from what speeds too fast for me.
Blessed be the scar swimming cross my right breast,
a fish-shaped wound from a battle
doctors never had to wage.
Blessed be their suspicion, their needles, the carving knife.
Blessed be the body trying to turn on itself
the relief of knowing it failed.
* * *
If you could see
the spectacular s p e c t r u m of pain
the sparks when they fly
would light up the w i d e dark sky ENTIRELY
a strange thing of beauty
in its grotesque distortions