Counting Scars

We’re counting scars under the skin.
This is where your father told you
you would never amount to anything –
just below your right temple.
I place my hand over my throat –
here is all my mother’s shouting,
at times I feel it – like a rope.
The whole of my skin bears the mark
of all the eyes and hands
who felt they had a right to it –
it is the skin of Indra –
the thousand exposed yoni –
and, unlike you, he would not understand.
Your turn again –
On your back, between your shoulder blades,
is where your friend became a stranger –
it wasn’t all of a sudden –
and so it felt less like a stabbing
and more like a push.
When you’re done talking
you take my hand
and place it over your heart.
I place your hand over mine
and we stay quiet
just for a little while.
Listen –
The heart is a riflebird –
and so at times it growls
but most of the time it sings.
The heart is pomegranate
that can only grow
when you let someone else feed.