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.