There's a scar
across the fingers on your left hand.
You remember the radiator
beneath the window
in the house on 2nd and Bell View.
No matter how many times Mother told you,
"Don't touch, you'll get burnt!"
You'd insist on making that reach.

There's a scar
deep inside your chest.
You remember the face,
the body beneath the shared covers
in your bed that past winter.
No matter how many times Mother told you,
"Don't touch, you'll get burnt!"
You insisted on reaching.