By Susan A. Hutchinson

The scar above your knee 
Was it that Summer on Nantucket when you were 18? 
And those white nylon cord bracelets, woven in a way that eclipsed the braid 
Then burned at the cut ends as clasp, closure 
All the rage, they said 
You succumbed, new bearer of the novelty 
An adolescent initiation 
For future memoir, perhaps 
What was to become testifiable 
As you fit the complex weaving on your wrist, lit the match 
Liquifying the raw slash of those cords 
A fiery ball of melted nylon fell 
Penetrating your lower thigh, a drop of molten lava 
The burn penetrating layer after layer  
Flesh cratering furiously, ferociously 
The flame of treason, unreason its mistress      
And the Mexican peasant dress, a chambray cotton of the finest construction 
Hung helplessly, the hem inches away from the assault 
As a shriek that even Lucifer could hear 
in the depths of a parallel flaming inferno  
pierced the unspeakable air.