Sandra Benedetto: Scars

It wasn’t your fault, Dad.
I was excited to see you,
so I ran headlong.
Two-year-old temples
are no match for
metal corners.
It wasn’t your fault, Mom.
You couldn’t have known,
and I didn’t insist.
My appendix
didn’t share battle plans for its
traitorous eruption.
It wasn’t your fault, Friend.
It was our idea together,
so we’d remember.
It worked, because that day
is burned like a cigarette on
my mind.
It wasn’t your fault, Doctor.
I worshipped the sun,
and this was my tithe.
You excised a little extra
and now my arm evokes
ultra violence.
It wasn’t your fault, Knife.
I underestimated you,
which was careless.
But you were perfect,
my neatly filleted flesh
gleaming pink.
You did it, Love.
I have a long memory,
so I didn’t invite you to join us.
You showed up anyway
and served my desiccated heart
to the one with the sharpest knife,
at last.

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