an ivy shrouded tree on a cul de sac someplace:
plated orange slices and lemonade wrapped in a root
sat is our group, circled up, the saltiest crew seen
haggard men of twelve, outside here regular boys and girls
counting the toughest amongst, the tales they’d lived to tell
the first starts the round robin
shifts a lock to show an x-marked spot
this one’s from when i got hit by that toy train
this from heavy scissors cutting backgrounds for the play, third grade.
this one’s from reaching into a can of olives
had to wait on my uncle from way across the apartments
‘cause we only had an electric opener in the house
and man i still love olives now! hey! tell them about
that time you took a corner funny on your bike
peeling down that hill.
we thought we’d have to peel you off the street —
man, stop saying peel! the scabs were otherworldly, you would never think
seeing this faint line i lost all the skin off my palm and knee
elbow, too. face kept pretty, though,
but the pain was so electric i kept on my tippy-toes
cackling at the sky before my dad had found and wrapped me up
you would die laughing at this mummy kid get a talking to
ay! tell ‘em about — tell them about —!
oh! this one’s my fave, half-moon on the leading knuckle
kinda makes you wonder what i’d been up to, doesn’t it?
funny enough, just washing dishes. this clay cup had
a little chip on the lip a twist of the sponge had busted
and that new jagged gap dug deep to the white meat
at least i was in the perfect spot to keep it clean, huh?
got to the doctor, told me stitches would be pointless
and i didn’t want it cut, we settled on alieve and ointment
you know, i heard they used to get scurvy on longer voyages
at sea with no vitamin C, every scar would reopen
like your body’s been remembering how to close and can’t anymore
is that why you keep passing around these oranges?
aye, scars be better as stories.