Moriah Hampton
SCAR
I make my way through
the bluish smoke
to your bedside
where you sit propped
on a pillow
a red-tipped cigarette
hanging like a deformed
finger from your hand.
I stand near the ash tray
filled with stamped-out buts
on the side table.
You take a long inhale
and with narrow eyes size up
my six-year-old self.
A smile surfaces
otherwise your face hides the changes
taking place inside you.
We do not speak.
The red ring travels down
the long cigarette
singeing the white paper.
Behind me a western plays
but you are looking at my face
not at the men on tv.
You lean forward
as though reaching
for the can of coke I am offering.
Your eyes shift to the left-hand
side of my face.
You raise the cigarette
and without hesitating
mash its burning tip into my cheek.
I say nothing.
You lean back towards the pillow.
Not one tear forms in my eye.
I neither flinch nor step away.
I know how to take it
like I know that pounding down
an empty coke can makes a person
feel bold.
Now you have a scar
you say, back flat against the pillow.
You deposit the cigarette
in the ashtray, buoyant
as if struck with a new idea
then shoo me away
the way you do when
tired of me
blocking the tv.
I run out the door
chasing emotions
I’ll never reach
even if I extend my arms.
They fly out the window
at the end of the long hallway.
Days later I lean
inches from
the master bathroom mirror
inspecting the scab
on my left cheek.
It spreads two inches
long across the bone
and one inch wide.
I’ll never know how deep.
I stare at it
for the fifth time that day.
Scabs form to let a wound heal
I’ve been told
and have resisted picking it
for as long as I can.
Just once I tell myself
running my index finger
down its bumpy surface.
I find the edge
and with my fingernail
pick until it loosens.
Moments later the entire
scab is gone.
I stare at the pink skin
flecked with blood
not quite believing
what I’ve done.
I flee the master bathroom
before I’m found out
but that night
I stroll back into
your smoke-filled bedroom
and stand at the foot
of the bed pretending to watch
the Braves play ball on TV.
During a commercial
I turn and say
I ripped off my scab today
energy flooding through me
as if I too stepped
up to the plate.
You survey me
belly laugh
then scoff
You think I care.
I swear I see a glimmer
in your eye daring me
to find out what kind
of man you are.
Smiling
I accept it’s my lot in life
to suffer the cost of early
wounds never healing.
As I turn to leave
you mutter
I would call you warrior
but never mind.