“Score” by Tami Boehle-Satterfield

Needle threaded,

Stitched across

Pinking soft cut tissue.

A juncture of whorls

Knitted tightly.

A competition of fresh, surgical wounds,

Seductive notches on a belt,

Never satisfies harbored grievances.

These deep incisions,

Barely scratching the surface of a remarkable score.

Sexual perversions,

Drug deals,

Patsy,

Booty,

Hooch.

With enough shallow cuts,

There is bend to your advantage.

But a winning score

Won’t settle the score.

So what’s the point?

Rudimentary marking,

Grading.

There is no mending,

No repair,

For what is done.

And even flesh and blood

Sutured shut,

Tallied up,

Won’t reckon the loss

And accounts for nothing, but your imagined glory.

September 2013