Scar

I call her Scarlet

the starlet

of my face.

Strong and sexy

like leather and lace,

she traces up and down

my lip,

(a seam, a seamstress)

reuniting a mouth

once parted

in memory of crimson fear

quelled in thick, dark stitches;

today, she’s just a little quirk,

a blip.

My Scarlet is

my favorite flaw.

I left my nine-to-five

for a life that’s more alive.

I spend my days with animals

we walk, run, play, dance,

hug, laugh, jump – and once,

before the snow

could thaw,

The black and white dog

with a powerful jaw

lunged at my face,

stitching the blanketed white ground

with blood-thread tapestries

prettier than I could

ever draw.

And the doctor sewed

her bold, striking stitches

setting the stage for my

beautiful flaw; and all the riches

of a corporate profession

are no match for the passion,

volatility, aggression,

madness and joy,

playfulness of

my new life, the adventurous

life I love,

and my Scarlet,

the mark on my face that remains –

I’ll carry her proudly each day

to my grave.

She’s my loveliest feature,

unique badge of honor,

weaving the story that whispers:

I’m brave.