Your Very Flesh, Walt Whitman

Here, on this knee
is the thumb tack scar
from the Wal-mart parking lot
where I bit my lip and did not weep


And there, on my belly and chin,
are round pock marks,
hole punched skin from chicken pox
too numerous to count
Yet me without a whimper,
enduring the oatmeal washes


Over the left eye,
where her cat took its swipe,
I remained silent
because I knew what I deserved


Criss-crossed and hop-scotched
across body and time,
a litany of choices and swallowed silence
Would my flesh be clean, I wonder now,
had I just learned to cry out instead?

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