M.D.

Behind my eyes,
becalmed in bed,
as the rooks clatter
in the lime trees,

and the last barks
of a dog trails off,
I am in the entrepot
of my memories,

picking at the skin
of scar tissue love,
I peel back time,
to make the past bleed

with the lifting
of rough scabs,
and with this peeling
comes a sore wound

which will not heal,
because I scratch it
into an angry mess:
her mark remains.