“Ugly,” is what you would call me, if you
were to call me anything. I have one
who can touch the scars without flinching. True,
“I am lucky;” what they tell the burden
so it will stop feeling like one. Sometimes
I want you to see what I look naked.
Mostly I don’t. It’s not like the right rhyme
will make the world love me, or that my blood,
once spilled, would raise a Cain. Of all the shocks
that’s the worse. That all my fears get condensed
to this: I could go out, full of desire
through the rain, with crickets clinging to stalks;
through wind, with seas of Queen Anne’s Lace against
my knees; and I would still drown in such fire.