by Janet Hanna

I don’t want to talk about the bruises.
I don’t want to talk about the wounds.
I want to talk about the scar tissue,
the angry, dark red, thin lines
that go deep,

the ones that, in time, turn a soft pink,
as though the blood has thinned,
and the damage superficial.

I run my fingers across the scars
like an alcoholic caressing
the cool neck
of the dark bottle,

knowing the smooth, fleshy surface
is a blind ditch
for the truth.

Posted by Janet Hanna

Janet Hanna lives in Greece. Mrs. Hanna is presently a tenured member of the faculty at the American University in Athens. A lifelong author and poet, you can read some of her best work in Boles Blogs.

One Comment

  1. […] timelessness of some of the more reflective pieces we published, like this example from 1997 about Scars: I run my fingers across the scars like an alcoholic caressing the cool neck of the dark […]

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