Here’s my butter’s phat: “That’s what I look bald?”
I asked as they changed the bandages: charred
pink. The wreckage of my forehead –– each scald
kiss-mark –– filleted skullcap’s split. What reward
is there in surviving? This: you shall name
the myth others will believe about you.
Withering flames traced my cranium’s frame
(ugh) left garlands of gristle. Each sinew
sutured. Each sequence to be read. Primal
as braille once my scalp’s stitches were removed.
“Can I touch it?” Love, I got scars that’ll make
each of your pheromones moan. I’m this dull
pink all over. Crunchy, you might say. Grooved
deep by heat. What the kids call: shake and bake.