Marcene Gandolfo

Lorca’s Guitar

You say a scar is just a line of music, written to skin, a string of notes, a row of old shirts that trembles a clothesline. Last night, I traced my scar in the cold light, as I rose from a hot bath that turned tepid. I remembered how my infant daughter loved water until she listened to the pull of the drain. I guess we all cry in the fear of disappearing. I’d towel her wet body, rock her against my chest until I’d hear her exhale. Tonight she sings in a distant city, strums a gypsy guitar. I miss her music when the teakettle’s shrill cuts winter air. Tonight my old scar rests inside a soft robe, by a warm teacup, near a fireplace, where the last kindling collapses to ash. Even the dying fire keeps my feet warm. Tonight I let the scar exhale.