Darlene Anita Scott

Tissue is wiser than my curiosity yet
I refuse the wisdom of its eruptions;
how it thickens in enthusiastic & care-
less ways. I picked at you to provoke
keloid, tattoo, something permanent.
(As if there aren’t more benign ways
to wear loss). Finally, the flesh caught
in your exodus has mottled. It’s now
a map I trace into dream-dense sleep;
like when I used to craft dreams from
holiday catalogues: wardrobe to lover;
when I knew so little about
the exaggeration of healing.