March 2017

Back to Issue 1


By Andy Jackson

The incision – mine anyway –

begins below the back of the neck


and ends just above the coccyx.

Surgical stitches quietly dissolve,


leave a thick scar – a blurred, insistent line.

As each layer of skin dies, it whispers to the next


the form and story of the wound.

This is how I continue, intact.


Yet now, as I strain to lift this

too-heavy object, the long suture ruptures


in my head – the scar tearing open.

You might think this visceral confession


only an image of mine. But you are becoming

this unstitching, this sudden opening.