Scar Tissue

 

“Then shall he strip his sleeve, and show his scars” – Henry V

 

I might get this scar, pink, livid, from my operation,

tatooed, turned into an Aboriginal lizard, perhaps;

Or, maybe not: I’ve almost grown to love it for itself

And not disguised, its furled skin-worm

Bisecting my navel, complete with stitch holes

 

Maybe we should love ourselves for ourselves

And not for what we want to be, including scars;

Scars and all.

 

Scars tell you that you’ve lived, that you’ve survived;

You’re not too perfect, though.

The way Leonardo

Might have stood in awe, horrified by a too-perfect statue,

Fearful of its blank, accusing stare,

Then lopped an arm off his own creation.

 

Or like Fra Bacon’s canvases;

A slashed masterpiece,

Acknowledged by its creator to be better,

Worth more on any market,

By not being too perfect.

 

I’ve started to look for scars,

Seek them out in other people, too;

Yes, give me scarred people, any time,

They know what’s what, they know first aid

and how to find their way to A&E at midnight.

Useful stuff; better scarred, than scared.

 

Scars are the lines that God has drawn

Across the tidy manuscript of your life

That knee-graze in the playground;

That strange mark from falling out the tree,

That day you stuck your wrist through the window

You’re better for them all, for having survived.

 

God save us from people who are too perfect;

Unmarked people merge into the background,

Are never there when you need them,

Always looking in the mirror;

They know nowt, they’re dangerous and complacent.

Get some experience, some life, some scars.

 

So, lover, come, show me all your scars,

Deliberate and accidental;

The ones I caused, and those I had no hand in,

No instrument; the ones where you had your hand in

That drawer where the sharp knives are.

 

I love you, even though you’re in the wars

I love you, all the different "what you ares"

Come, lover, let me kiss your many scars.