A heart is inscribed on a daughter
as a mother dozes before the television.
Upper arms,
inner thighs, become gallery walls
while a late night movie
goes unwatched.
Someone has needles and indian ink.
An open John stall
does for a fancy parlor.
Eyes close to the fact
that R loves W
and skin is dying
to attest to that fact.
Pain and pus
and a little blood
and the handiwork
of a slipshod Cupid
is smuggled home
beneath sweater and jeans.
The mother wakes
to the sound of the key in the lock.
“Love you," says daughter.
"Love you" says mother
but without the scars to prove it.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon.