Body Language

by Kenny Fries

What is a scar if not the memory of a once open wound?

You press your finger between my toes, slide

the soap up the side of my leg, until you reach

the scar with the two holes, where the pins were

inserted twenty years ago.  Leaning back, I

remember how I pulled the pin from my leg, how

in a waist-high cast, I dragged myself

from my room to show my parents what I had done.

Your hand on my scar brings me back to the tub

and I want to ask you: What do you feel

when you touch me there?  I want you to ask me:

What are you feeling now?  But we do not speak.

You drop the soap in the water and I continue

washing, alone.  Do you know my father would

bathe my feet, as you do, as if it was the most

natural thing.  But up to now, I have allowed

only two pair of hands to touch me there,

to be the salve for what still feels like an open wound.

The skin has healed but the scars grow deeper –

When you touch them what do they tell you about my life?