The First Time
the stitches
were novel;
at recess
I showed them off
like a temporary tattoo.
I let the other kids run
their fingers down
my fresh scar and told
them doctors took
the ear clean off.
I missed the call to line
up, and in
detention for tardiness
I wrote, I’m not
sorry for showing my scar
as if I knew to be proud
of survival. I told kids
I didn’t feel a thing
there anymore, but
it was a lie; it was
my most alive part.
No longer
working for me
but still of me.
Always a cacophony,
the sounds of healing
but not of hearing.
