A southpaw drawn to my left, my good side
in photographs, until the moment I knew
better, like all careless love. Better than
to bend close to his foxy head so soon after
boarding over the weekend. Better than
trying to spoon as we often do, taking in
the other’s bestial scents. Then his canines
in my cheek, white cold then fire then
the gorgeous blood. My face a surprised
welt I knew would scar, the left no longer
my good side, a fitting gift on my seventieth
birthday, when the scars I’ve groomed and hidden
so well erupted and swept their brilliance
across this starry, starry night—because I
indeed saw stars—close enough to gash
chin and cheek, remind me that in the end,
no matter the sting, no one’s at fault. Which is
not to say how I staunched the flow of other
nicks and blows and rusty nails, strange gifts
from the unwashed world—all of us furred
and foolish and bumbling into bruise or wound,
able to show off more reminders that in time
loss turns to gloss and another line added
to my smile only means more smile, more
evidence of love’s dire throes.
Poet, playwright, essayist, and editor, Linda Parsons is the poetry editor for Madville Publishing and the copy editor for Chapter 16, the literary website of Humanities Tennessee. Her sixth collection, Valediction, contains poems and prose (Madville Publishing, 2023). Five of her plays have been produced by Flying Anvil Theatre in Knoxville, Tennessee.