April Poetry: 42 Scars

Poem #6 for National Poetry Month

This poem was inspired by a quiet afternoon in our Nashville apartment. I was a few months out from my second heart transplant that occurred in October 2018. By January, I developed an infection in the incision site that led to a sternal debridement surgery and wound vac in late February.

By mid-March, the vac was gone and the wound was mostly healed, leaving a bright pink scar overlaying the fading surgical scar from the transplant itself. After a shower, I laid down on the bed while my husband counted up the many scars I had accumulated through my multiple surgeries plus those afflicted by others or by myself.

This was originally published in Intangible Magazine.

Photo by Shane on Unsplash

42 Scars

By Dawn Levitt

Lying languid across the mattress –
my naked flesh exposed
to the caress of my lover’s eyes.
Afternoon sunlight filters slanted
through the window blinds.
Zebra stripes on my skin
intersect with the interstate 
highway map of my scars.

42 scars he counts,
fingers tracing pinkish silver lines
cobwebbing flesh with
jet trails of survival.
Surgical scars from those who worked
to save my life.
Combative scars from those who tried
to end my life.
Accidental scars from trying 
to live my life – 
navigating a body that often operates
independently of my mind.

42 times I did not die – 
blood pounding in my ears, insisting
“I live. I live. I live.” 
If determination is a virtue, 
I’m a saint.
Patron saint of stubborn rock creatures, 
dandelion weeds and vermin infestations.
I swallow poison every day just to 
stay alive,
making me toxic to those who would
consume my flesh.
 

Originally published in “Intangible Magazine” October 2024.