Finger to scars.
On my chest, I trace all the places
where I would leave bodies of water.
A lake in the center. A pond forehead.
Ocean on my back.
My parents fall in. My parents drown.
We hold a funeral and we know
the caskets are empty.

A doctor had a set of tools meant
just for my body. Carved away flesh
where there were breasts and this is different
than the marks I paint on my arms and thighs
because it required a diagnosis.

I once pressed my index finger
to a red stove top and I didn’t burn.
No ocean here,
just depths.