Your scars are external. The one
you wear from the birth of your
son—by far—is your favorite; it
connects your navel to your pubic
hair like it was drawn to in-
struct medical students and never
erased. In the shower last night,
you guided my fingers to the seam
that keeps you closed. Are the
cuts that knives create easier
to endure? We stand without
speaking. The joined contours of
our bodies create new paths for the
water to follow. Silence can hide
scars, but you want certain moments
shared by us with the intrusion
of words. Our scars remind us that
we can repair almost anything that
works against us. I open my eyes
and watch a river follow the gully
of your spine.