ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
December 10, 2011
A Constellation of Scars by ~foxthepoet in absolutely gorgeous poem that takes a single metaphor and unfolds it into a delicate, powerful story.
Literature Text
only long-term lovers take the time
to ponder the origins of marks on skin
the first thing I notice are her scars:
she's a wandering tomboy
with more cuts and scrapes
than a hardbody Buick in an action film
but she's never been broken
I chart them as she sleeps so I can write poems later
these fingertips can still recall them
the way surgeons never have nightmares
about patients they save
but they're haunted by the faces they lost
she says she wears her scars like a constellation
I chart them like Galileo
trying to map her ancestry
circumnavigating her body as if Magellan
hired me as helmsman
and only I can get us safely home
every scar has a story
the way men who ink themselves
on every square inch
from big toe to eyebrow
can name the tattoo artist
and heartbreak behind each symbol
if she let you close enough to nap with an ear on her chest
you could hear the heartbreaking discord
as her mother's violin and father's oboe
played so selfishly
they forgot they had a daughter in the orchestra
trying to make peace between the melodies
that hadn't played the same song in decades
but open wounds grow a thicker skin
and 24 years of a bleeding heart
made her impregnable
now, the manufacturers of castles,
SWAT team body armor
and 747 black boxes
are in negotiation to duplicate her skin as a prototype
but she only answers e-mails from war orphans
and young widowers who bury their first loves
because only they understand
what she teaches:
how to survive after the world ends
and do it with a smile
and the belief that everything is still sincerely beautiful
whatever doesn't kill you becomes a cliché
and every time some failed love
broke her in half
her heart phoenixed and doubled in size
so by the time she climbed into my arms
I could climb inside her chest
as if she made herself into a hammock
by taking all the times she whispered "I love you" to a stranger
but never heard back
wove them together
so that when she met a lover
who wanted to study the stories of her scars
he would have a place to sleep between shifts
I studied her scars like a crime scene
trying to figure out which cuts were misdemeanors
and which were alibis for felonies
until I came across the last one
on which she had written in invisible ink,
that only glowed when I kissed her
drunk with love
"there is no mystery to solve, boy,
I just wanted someone to come this far"
by then I learned her scars so well
that if they sang musical notes
I could play her like a symphony in the dark
the strings of her arms hummed work songs
learned alongside peasants in El Salvador
the percussion of her feet
beat bass rhythms of the wandering road
snare-drumming stories to mark the miles
between hitchhiking pickup spots
the brass of her legs intoned harmonies with strangers
like she was rearranging the stars
as if Rigel, Mintaka and the Horsehead Nebula
separated by thousands of light years
had any clue we call them Orion
and that in the bed of a pickup truck
in an empty parking lot
she and I use that unexpected relationship
between irrelevant clumps of hydrogen
to ignore the sheer absurdity
of how strangers become lovers
to kiss for the first time
"you see," she says
"why I wear these scars like a constellation"
shooting stars scar the face of Sagittarius
or cut Hercules in half
but once they fall to Earth
it's as if they never happened
and no matter how many broken satellites
may scar the sky in your brief lifetime
we are just the dust of stars
condensed into living stories
the burning suns that make up these limbs
have been on fire for eons
shooting stars only last a second
but you can wish on these scars
until we swirl together as stardust
and burn bright as a sun
to ponder the origins of marks on skin
the first thing I notice are her scars:
she's a wandering tomboy
with more cuts and scrapes
than a hardbody Buick in an action film
but she's never been broken
I chart them as she sleeps so I can write poems later
these fingertips can still recall them
the way surgeons never have nightmares
about patients they save
but they're haunted by the faces they lost
she says she wears her scars like a constellation
I chart them like Galileo
trying to map her ancestry
circumnavigating her body as if Magellan
hired me as helmsman
and only I can get us safely home
every scar has a story
the way men who ink themselves
on every square inch
from big toe to eyebrow
can name the tattoo artist
and heartbreak behind each symbol
if she let you close enough to nap with an ear on her chest
you could hear the heartbreaking discord
as her mother's violin and father's oboe
played so selfishly
they forgot they had a daughter in the orchestra
trying to make peace between the melodies
that hadn't played the same song in decades
but open wounds grow a thicker skin
and 24 years of a bleeding heart
made her impregnable
now, the manufacturers of castles,
SWAT team body armor
and 747 black boxes
are in negotiation to duplicate her skin as a prototype
but she only answers e-mails from war orphans
and young widowers who bury their first loves
because only they understand
what she teaches:
how to survive after the world ends
and do it with a smile
and the belief that everything is still sincerely beautiful
whatever doesn't kill you becomes a cliché
and every time some failed love
broke her in half
her heart phoenixed and doubled in size
so by the time she climbed into my arms
I could climb inside her chest
as if she made herself into a hammock
by taking all the times she whispered "I love you" to a stranger
but never heard back
wove them together
so that when she met a lover
who wanted to study the stories of her scars
he would have a place to sleep between shifts
I studied her scars like a crime scene
trying to figure out which cuts were misdemeanors
and which were alibis for felonies
until I came across the last one
on which she had written in invisible ink,
that only glowed when I kissed her
drunk with love
"there is no mystery to solve, boy,
I just wanted someone to come this far"
by then I learned her scars so well
that if they sang musical notes
I could play her like a symphony in the dark
the strings of her arms hummed work songs
learned alongside peasants in El Salvador
the percussion of her feet
beat bass rhythms of the wandering road
snare-drumming stories to mark the miles
between hitchhiking pickup spots
the brass of her legs intoned harmonies with strangers
like she was rearranging the stars
as if Rigel, Mintaka and the Horsehead Nebula
separated by thousands of light years
had any clue we call them Orion
and that in the bed of a pickup truck
in an empty parking lot
she and I use that unexpected relationship
between irrelevant clumps of hydrogen
to ignore the sheer absurdity
of how strangers become lovers
to kiss for the first time
"you see," she says
"why I wear these scars like a constellation"
shooting stars scar the face of Sagittarius
or cut Hercules in half
but once they fall to Earth
it's as if they never happened
and no matter how many broken satellites
may scar the sky in your brief lifetime
we are just the dust of stars
condensed into living stories
the burning suns that make up these limbs
have been on fire for eons
shooting stars only last a second
but you can wish on these scars
until we swirl together as stardust
and burn bright as a sun
Literature
The Rumour of Icarus
Icarus
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails
Literature
One Day I Shall Lay Down And Die
one day i shall lay down and die
and so for now here is my kiss, my golden-ness,
my forehead pressed against yours
like two strange animals lost on a plain of
red sand. one day i shall lay down and die so
now here, let these birds pick me apart,
show you it all, the torn underwear
and the girl gazing at the soft glow
on trees, the ferocious lion-love
weeping under the kitchen table. one day
i shall lay down and die
so for now i feast on beaches, your breath,
the flutter of my dress sore against my skin
someday i will find that peace,
plant a spring-flower deep in my heart, land one last cool kiss
on the bow of your mouth and sl
Literature
anemic, broken, and growing up anyway
when my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voice
while dust drifted in the sunshine
of our creaky old room.
dear me [she said],
barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile.
love,
me.
"did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word
with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag.
i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully
and she smiled.
when my s
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
A poem about my ex.
© 2011 - 2024 foxthepoet
Comments54
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Wow! You got a deviant badge! Congratz!