Andy Craven-Griffiths
Witness
He removes his shirt,
shows me here
and here constellations
emerging the way new stars appear
once you get used to the darkness.
Been there the whole time
scar tissue just mute–somehow–
until now, each puckered mouth
soldered shut where
the melted-skin cooled to knots
of pale wax here and here
from when I was in care.
There is always something worse
than you thought it could be:
a silhouette in a doorway, singed smell
of tobacco, a cigarette’s glowing
red tip. There are things bad enough
that just knowing them
takes something, but here
and here he is also gifting
something: the right
to hold it with him. And I want to
reassure him I would definitely swap,
I want to know I could choose myself
in his place, if it took away
what they did, what they are
still doing.