skin cartography

my legs are maps

but there’s no scale,

no 1:500, no eastings or northings

no hint of home.

a few millimetres above my knee,

a blue roan lingers as a faded scar.

was it a silly fall on wet asphalt, or a scarring crash on Balinese roads?

the roan wanders between scars, howling

like a lost wolf

looking for a moon.

a crater on the outside

of my calf, discoloured, birthing tiny volcanoes

with paper white tops,

its slopes shaded

by purple skin.

it’s the only story i know for sure

happened. i can still

remember my skin

burning, bubbling on boiling

concrete, as my mother’s ribs

crunched beneath.

my helmeted head hit the ground,

while the wheels of our bike spun

like the needle of a cursed compass.