Pages

03 February 2012

Scar.


Because it’s beautiful.

I’ve a mark upon my torso
Like a zipper, only more so.
It commences at my suprasternal dent;
Then continues down my centre,
Like a stocking seam is meant to,
Though its terminus is very slightly bent.

When I got it, I was nascent.
Had my doctors been complacent,
My life might have been as fleeting as a fart.
But persistent cyanosis
Meant a rapid diagnosis
Of a blocked pulmonary valve inside my heart.

Quite a fiddly operation
Soon restored my respiration;
My complexion turned a healthy baby pink.
Now I’m fixed, though I was broken;
And I bear a fleshy token
Of my short post-natal visit to the brink.

People might think I’m ill-fated
Or in some way mutilated
Or I don’t know when they’re trying not to stare.
But when I look, all I see,
Is just the provenance of me
And the nicest thing that I could ever wear.


With thanks to Drs Cartmill and Celermajer (senior), for everything.