Mundane Scar
Papi reclines on the couch
a dark shadow in the dim
lighting of the family
room. His finger probes
the shiny skin stretched
like burnt umber smeared
along his sharp shin
bone. He was stealing
bananas to ease
the hunger—green
which made him sick—
when the farmer
released the dogs.
I imagine
my father: bare
hairless legs grip
the smooth skin
of the banana tree
blood trickles slow
to his ankles where the leaves
slice his flesh.
Not even the full moon
penetrates the malachite
canopy fanned
from the tops of each plant.
Flies swarm
at his worn shirt
where stolen green
bananas bulge
in sharp relief through sweat-
soaked cotton. The humid air
coats his skin, sticky
wet dirt and sugar.
He hears the angered snarls
from the dilapidated
farm house
and jumps from the tree
dropping the fruit
clutched in his small fist.
He sprints for the glint
of the chain link
barbs catch in his leg
rip meat chinks
from his shin as he claws
through the small opening
praying the dogs
be too big to follow
across the road.
No. Papi sits up
examining the fence scar—no.
Not bananas—
mangos,
really hard to carry.
But now I wonder
if the fence ever existed
if the mark on his shin
might merely be a mundane
scar, perhaps one of the many
moles sprinkled
over his body, removed.
