Scar

by Neil Flowers

          We’re eighteen
          just bought my first motorcycle
          still waiting for my first kiss
          was over by the church, St George’s
          somehow Julie’s there
          We know each other vaguely
          had met sometime earlier, kids
          from roughly the same neighbourhood
          she was plump then, still growing,
          as a fifteen–year–old girl would be
          Then we didn’t see each other
          for the longest time but someone
          told me how she’d fallen
          out of a skiboat up at her cottage
          been struck by the outboard’s prop
          right along the bridge of her nose
          on the cheek, too, but miracle, the blade
          had missed her eye by a micron
          not blinded her, so when we met
          at St. George’s she was all healed
          scar running along the left side
          of her face from mid forehead down
          along the bridge grazing the eye socket into her cheek
          thick white line a lightning bolt
          She’s lost all her baby fat
          body solid now, face beautiful, only the scar
          to mar her. So I said, nervous,
          You want to ride?
          She climbed onto the pillion seat
          and we stormed down Dundas Street
          over the hill there onto the highway
          her arms around me hands on my belly
          me winding out the Vincent past 100 mph
          no helmets back then and we could have
          gone on to the stars, some romantic dream,

          never returning. But she whispers
          in my ear. So I cross the overpass
          back down the highway back to her house
          She dismounts, leans in kisses me
          on the lips, her cheek touching mine
          Fifty years ago it was
          We never met again
          I still feel her kiss
          hard line of the scar