The index finger he mournfully lets

slide

down his own temple

follow

the oval of his cheek

and lodge

in the hollow of his chin

He’s speaking of his mother
and her dread as a young girl
when without a sound
she offered smooth! her face
to the cutting edge of the blade
The scar I tell you
makes you grow up and give birth
when the time comes

But here is the woman
now mature and in spite of the distance
suddenly sits at the table of our emotion
She brings her hand to her mouth
to stifle laughter
tilts her slender neck
promises us
that in a week or less
charcoal worked wonders
only beautiful and fine guilloche
remained from her temple to her chin

She touches

from the tip of her wing

the chest of her child

She laments

all this time spent by him

dodging daggers and borders

potholes and knives

without ever finding his haven

outside of words

She proclaims

that for scars of exile

there’s no medical recourse

and like a dove
embroiders the song of absence