Battle Scars

by Amy Soricelli

I cannot carry in a cup, the fear I feel for you.
It would take a bucket with two hands, possibly sounds of effort -
to lift your burden up the hill.
Solid ground would become a zaggy whirlpool  -
your bumps of uncertainty...your dances on my feet.
It is sad, i know, the sounds you make when you waken fresh from some dark dream-
the hills of strong footing in rumpled sheets lost in the valley of your pillow.
It is clouds that stop us,we answer.   Our own ghosts.
You say your pain is deeper - stronger - louder.
We wrestle our anger like a contest - it ties us up/wraps us tight.
We fall against the mats defeated/ lost in some slippery cloud of dust.
I cannot carry in my heart the heavy sounds of lonely.
It turns against itself - poking, jabbing -  needle ends against the thin skin.
Like a high school cutter -you can run your fingers along the faintest scar -
swelling up on rainy days, fluttering like an eye when deprived of sleep, love.
The finger runs along the lines of it.
They always lead to you.