Marsha Segerberg

ODE TO MY FRECKLED ARMS

every spot I won
since childhood sun
now they merge by age
into a crowd
no  straight path
through the mob
scars from jumping dogs’
ragged claws, white spots —
pre-cancers scraped off
with liquid nitrogen and a blade
self-repair of barbed wire tears —
that day we went
bushwacking
mesquite stabs
as I teetered by
on my bike
bumps and pits
from who knows what
I wear long sleeves
when at the opera
but now
it is my history
ground into flesh
that I will recall perhaps
when I remember
nothing else —
the self-made book.


back to contents

prev
next