with soap and a cotton
cloth the human stain and all
the shame of wearing it
like a port wine
stain on her face. She can
not shrink the scar like smoking
a cigar down to the stub. She cannot
wipe it away with a can of
household spray. It seeps into
the cracks. Like roots growing
in a sidewalk it expands
and buckles, like a punch
in the gut with brass
knuckles. She cannot erase
it like words on the school
blackboard. They fester inside
her head. She cannot rip it
up like paper in a shredder,
cutting it into narrow strips
or little confetti chips. She can
not paint over it with a make-
up brush to fit. Like a watercolor in
the rain the colors bleed and drain
into a puddle by her feet. How life repeats.