Emily Sullivan Sanford
Every spring I must explain my arms to children,
before my legs arrive in summer.
The scars hold their eyes.
I can draw scars,
bright purple or beige.
Leave my arm on the edge, the ledge,
not to fall over but to absorb
some print of danger,
of the almost.
The adults hold the almost question:
What did happen?
I drew scars for myself.
No accidents anywhere.
Children reach out their arms, beg.
“I want to touch your scars again.”
Eyes are not enough for drawing.
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