The Map of Scars Framed by difference bleeding badly, I was taking off equipment. Perched my plagiarizing leg against the over-conscious wall. The long parade of youth beside me. Bouncing four and five-year olds. Sporting jade of satin motion. Wanting just to pat mistakes. Left was strong and self-possessed. On the right were all the wrongs. Splinters stretched to stipulations. Wishbone limbs that lost the draw. My shrunken femur was remorse for not supplying wet assurance: "Chances are, you'll grow up flawless. Merely staring at the oats in troughs of horses living lame" Courage cattle had to gather. Thirsty doesn't have a choice. Effort was the only pearl in clusters of salvation's brooch. Between the hymns of "Don't You Stare!" came recognition's dulcet psalm. A requiem of folded hands like envelopes that sealed fate. The credit-card was gratitude in wallets of their mothers' eyes. The map of scars, a table-cloth that God had graced with broken plates.
Janet I. Buck
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