The scar burrows into your fair skin,
makes it rosy and merry,
so merry that it bleeds and mottles:
keeps you delirious.
It makes you as sage as Athena,
she who sprang from her father’s wound
after he consumed his wife whole,
heedless of her shrieking, shrieking, shrieking.
It makes you keep time and parse leaves
in the tea ring of your soul,
and you cannot find the answer though
you choke on it.
Remember me too,
as I wound the lives there,
and the scar burrows into the faerie
love that was once mine, gold and true.
