One, two, three, four
incisions, stretched across
belly, in the curl of navel,
down beneath the navel,
delicious bikini, invisible
to the touch, rise
like a bump,  red scar
turn brown
on this skin.

Beneath the skin, a turning,
a wishing, a wishing well, a tumble,
snow falling at midnight,
a breath of blood, a hole,
abracadabra life,
            sing mercy, New Death,
do not weep.
Find a field to wade in,
lick the melting
snow.  Stay still.  Stay just
like this,

one finger to thin mouth,
little baby         depleted, angry scar
raging pulse of abdomen
scared cold into a light
too bright
to see
me, scared cold
into forever patch,
unaltered blue.

From Fledgling Rag, Issue 11. Copyright ©2012 by Tameka Cage Conley. Used by permission of the poet and Iris G. Press