Ode to the Scar on my Hip

(after a prompt by Jon Sands)

In these ways you are like myself: you are obstinate
and ornery, slow to heal and forget, a survivor,
victorious, particular about when and how
and by whom you like to be touched.  You
are a beautiful testimony of survival, you,
so like a tiger, a dragon, a snake, your softness
and hardness, your teardrop shape, the way you perch

on my hip like a lover, as raw and pink
as a baby's first wail.  Do not be afraid
of lasers, I would never threaten you with them.  Do not
be afraid of reopening.  You, so like a medal,
a ribbon, raised like a ridge, a mark
of exclamation.  You talk shit on oceans
and riptides and rocks, your makers, you tell them
then will never take you down.  You drink tequila,
neat, no salt, no lime, no
back, while you do ballet stretches in front
of a mirror.  You paint.  I remember

the days and days it took you to heal, as you lay
open, stayed open, shining like an overripe strawberry,
still pregnant with the ocean's salt.  The world teaches us
we should hide our scars; instead, I framed you
with a tattoo, you deserve a frame, a parade, a star
on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, a star
in the sky, maybe that one there, on Orion's belt,
just at the hip, a cake, defiant
with ten dozen candles.