Arms and The Man

John’s scars mean more
to me than any love
song he might sing.
Scarlet gouges scream,
silver rivered threads
weave his story
but I don’t care,
I love his
patchwork truth.
I love his
soft indelible traces
the ridged uneven ferment
he wears.
Each pit, each mark
a reminder of what
he was – before
his now.