Scar
It's above my right eye
your left.
In the middle – see it?
Ok, so I'm 12 years old
and I hate my eyebrows.
I got 'em from my Mamma.
They skipped my mother
and landed on my face.
(My son has a unibrow
no doubt from the same
errant gene).
So I'm looking at these
brown wooly wormsabsurdly
thick
(we'll have a cold winter
this year).
Anyway, I'm standing
in front of the mirror,
my Dad's straight razor
in hand. I've tried
that plucking bit.
Torture! (Mom said
"you have to suffer
to be beautiful.")
Forget it.
And of course I have
to make fast work of it
so I can go read my
book-of-the-day. Oh!
Ow!
Well I took a huge chunk
– blood everywhere.
You can still see the scar
a dark little boat on a white sea
surrounded by the flotsam of hairs:
a daily reminder of my
first blood sacrifice to Venus
and my regrettable tendency
to want things the easy way.