Wendy Barry

Showing of Scars

Sometimes it is in the darkness--when it 
comes in like an indigo cloak across 
our shoulders, and narrows everything down 
to just the small group of creatures by the 
fire, or on the deck of a ship. Some-
times it is in a hotel room on the 
run, after a rescue, or a heist, but 
also, in line for burgers and fries, or 
stamps, where we meet new friends and companions; 
in every case, we have showing of scars—
sometimes attended by drunkenness and 
revelry, but not always. Sometimes we 
are just on the subway together. We 
may be far apart, different from one 
another, enemies for centuries, 
but after some whiskey, the moment of 
recognition is in the body’s
bearings. By the line of furrowed flesh, once 
brilliant crimson, fading to pale pink, and 
then a white wrinkled ribbon on his thigh, 
Eurekleia knows Odysseus. The
line where we were broken open, and then 
repaired. Around every campfire, in every 
crisis, we drink to our legs. We remember 
our own Indianapolis and all 
the endless water. The sharks almost had 
us, you and I.  I feel the ridge along 
your skull. You admire the wonder which 
knits me together. Whoever we are, 
we know each other. This is how we heal. 

Wendy Barry is a Connecticut Yankee living in South Carolina. She is the co-editor of The Annotated Anne of Green Gables from Oxford University Press. She is a poet, gardener, jewelry maker, painter, teacher, and friend to dogs.