A good poem should be written like a scar.

when i write i want your skin rise like 
the contours of a topographic map-- 
see the chasms of the Atlantic in my forearms
open and open again-- this is where
we buried the voyage of a grandmother
and an anchor scraped into the silt--
dig me into a row of soy beans-- rake fingers
in mud and clay-- this is where we plant 
our punctuation in the hopes of growing 
a picture of ourselves in a bathroom mirror--
plow a prophecy in a smudge of mist--
run your fingers over the burns on my 
arms where the stars fell and singed me
from the head of a match stick--
light the big dipper bright enough
to stir the alphabet soup of this couplet--
does your blood taste like tomato soup like mine?
i want my poems to make you want to kiss
everyone you forgot you loved--
run a thumb over their scars and smooth
them into the dotted lines of the road
watch scabs turn into pillow cases
to rest a poem on--
they tell me the slip of an X-acto knife 
across the back of my hand made me a woman--
and i'm explaining it made me a star--
was i the apple you meant to cut into quarters?
or are you here to tell me that a scar is only
a collection of words we use to remember skin--
are there enough scars to write about something
other than apple seeds?
i want to know what you plant in
the backyard when the soil is soft enough toeat--
i curled my stomach into a fist tight enough
to become a stanza-- turned my neck again 
as the stem as the volta-- look back
at me and remember something i said
to make your arms feel again like Appalachia--
a rocky ridge to crumple your past
into stones and toss over the ledge
of a mountain-- 
you told me you eat my 
poems with a fork and an X-acto knife-- 
i said 
eat through the plate
the table and gnaw 
scars into the kitchen floor.