Scar on the Cheek
The kiss on the cheek
planted swift, turns
to thorny scratch, burns
long and thin, drips
red on black dirt.
Fragile petals live a breath
away, a thin vein from death.
Roses keep distant,
far from drawn swords
ready to impale petal-skin.
Repent and attempt
to pluck stems
of delicate short-lived beauty,
for arrangements in a vase,
that fragrance may erase
the scent of love’s demise.
But watch when red drips:
seeds bloom anew,
emit ethereal perfume, transform
into wild, vibrant, hybrid,
blood-red rose. Are you a rose?
Are you a thorn?
Or one scratched by scorn
of deceiver’s kiss?
Show me your scar.
For me, it’s in pain I’ve seen Him the clearest. So when pain comes, I have come to realize I’m going to have a better view of the one who loves me most. Your poem was beautiful.
I resonate with that, Anne, I love how you stated that. It’s such an irony, isn’t it, that we find that view of love through pain?
When my mother died suddenly from a botched operation, the scar ran deep. When they sang at her funeral that we were never promised a bed of roses, the scar still remained. When I read your poem and remembered the Lord’s forehead felt the roses’ thorns, I remember no matter how deep my scar, the Healer understands the pain and the blood-red of His sacrifice heals no matter how deep the scar.
I’m so sorry for your loss and pain. “No matter how deep the scar”–yes, thank you for this. That’s beautiful.