She wore only her beauty
and worry
a Pixie like carved cedar
offering herself
to me.

But not yet
not yet.

Her finger traced a cruel scar
a lightning bolt
dashed
from rib to pelvis.

“This is my shame.”

A tiny girl retrieved from Death’s agenda
by skilled hands with brave minds
forever marked
forever different
ridiculed
tortured
shamed.

Her eyes told of other men
balking
walking away
disgusted.
Fuckers all.

Kneeling at her feet
I studied her belly with
my hands.

“This is no shame
this is life
this let you be here
so it is beautiful to me.”

Lips pressed
to the beginning
I followed the scar’s storyline
to its conclusion.

Don’t talk to me about
tiny skirts
jeans like spray paint
stilettos to gut me
while you stand in nothing
but red lace
candy wrappers

But later
after
the tides of passion ebb
after
I fill you and you drain me
if you want to talk about
sexy clothes
I’m your huckleberry.