Exposed

A dent in the wooden floor.
Summer light hides it & my scar, a white
river of tissue hidden by these gloves.
Being imperfect as gods & gardens is a line
crossed every day. Take this woman in a crate.
How does she spell home?
Pleasing, I think checking my reflection: lipstick,
with blush, with shame. While the woman’s
sandals keep her cold feet cold.
In misery. I drive the overpass, this
my full, full summer. My scarred hidden
hands.

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