31 Winter Poems: Poem 18

Dear Eve,

I need to tell you a secret.

It is of the utmost importance--

I can sense that you will understand completely.

There is something leeching out of me.

I cannot tell my family,

and I don’t think they have noticed yet.

They will only make fun of me more

than they already do. They call me Dory,

like the little blue fish in Finding Nemo.

The way something shiny distracts me from my tasks

and I veer off course without looking back

forgetting all about the wet laundry laying on the hardwood floor,

or the half-eaten meal

cold on the counter hours later,

or the car running, door open

and me tearing break-neck down the block

chasing the doe who stumbled

into our suburban neighborhood unannounced.

I am simply making sure the police don’t succeed

in using their tasers to stun her.

I know what that feels like, and it isn’t pleasant.

Believe me.

But anyway, I have deviated too far from the subject at hand

(surely more proof of the pudding).

Let me get back to this substance

that seems to be oozing out of me.

I first noticed it seeping from my scar,

which is the very reason I know you will understand me.

I believe our scars have fallen in love.

It is not clear how they met, but I have been told

they are planning an exorbitant wedding

and are contemplating naming their firstborn Moe,

which I think is an imbecilic idea.

But we have plenty of time to convince them of that.

My scar is S shaped and about six inches long.

It is a bluish-gray color, swollen and dimpled.

I try to avoid looking at it

because it reminds me of a caterpillar crawling

along my belly. I am sure at any moment

it will pop its furry head

out of my collar to tickle my chin.

I swear I’ll bite its head off when it does.

Anyway, again I digress. This green and viscous secretion,

which at first was just a trickle

around the edges of my scar,

is now beginning to gush

soaking my clothes so that I have to change them

several times a day,

not just my shirt but my underpants and sometimes even my socks

when it has begun to pool

in my favorite black boots,

the ones I got at Kmart with a coupon.

I am hoping that due, in part, to the impending nuptials

and the possibility we will be grandparents soon,

you might consider having a word with

that tiny white X on your chest, the one

right above your heart,

to see if you can find out what is causing this mysterious flow.

I am trying to contain it as long as I can

so my family won’t recognize my discomfort or even notice

the witch is back.

She is not riding her broom this time, but her cauldron

is full of hot sauce and something that looks suspiciously

like a cat with only two legs and one ear.

I am convinced you understand my fears and will do your best

to help me in my finest hour of need.

Or at the very least, maybe you can write a play

about our scars

and their fairytale beginning.