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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.