she ripped open
her shirt, showed
me her scars,
fire grew
hotter, whiskey
burnt my throat,
scars aren't
tarot, but you
can read them.
what I saw,
a cornfield burnt,
a scythe brand,
I looked in her eyes,
her religious past seared
an unholy reminder,
you need only
go to a campfire
with her,
scars make love
to other scars under
the stars in a bedroll,
the wood smoke
permeated our flannel
shirts, the owl knows about scars,
it's best not to
have a conversation
about scars at a campfire,
scars tell their
stories quiet, just
read them like tarot.
Copyright 12/22/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
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to other scars under
the stars in a bedroll,
profound words here!
'scars make love
to other scars under
the stars in a bedroll,'
We're all imperfect, but acceptance and love is the first step in healing. One of your many bests, Sage. Well done.
(((HUGS))) love and Merry Christmas!, Karla. :)
and providing succour.
merry christmas, poet!
reflections of one
Twin flames
flickering as
they dance on wood
burning embers
souls union
united by log
I can’t think of a better way
To mend those brandish scars
Than to bare them to “Campfire Tales”
“scars make love
to other scars under
the stars in a bedroll,”
Vickie...looking for my plaids buttons...
Be always safe,
Karen
Have a beautiful Holiday, and may the New Year bring light love and much peace!
hugs and warm healing energy your way,
Amber
May we be read by orators who make our lives poetry.
Blessings to you...
John
Love,
Deborah