I am an expert in not seeing –
my eyes can slide from face to belly
without registering what’s between –
smooth as the cool glass in the mirror –
they don’t stop
I am skilled in the fine art
of ignoring. I don’t see the thin line
where the blade bit me. I don’t see
the surgeon’s skill
there is no feeling
that line marks me, scrawled across my skin,
but under it there is the beauty
of scalpel, needle, years of training –
all those years of study given to me
by his steady hand
and my clean cells linking binding,
their interdigitation, their blind purpose,
has its own beauty. My skin weaving itself
my muscles cleaving to each other
in a blue womb.
Powerful imagery. I think beauty in all of us comes from our lines, our flaws, all the things that make us human and unique. Love this poem.
Thank you. and thank you for your previous supportive comments.
I think it’s easier to see the beauty in the scars of others than in our own.
Right? We are always our own worst critics. It’s hard to see ourselves through the lens others use to view us. Be well and take good care of yourself.