The first poem appeared on my forehead, 
like a game of connect the dots. A fresh crop
of chicken pox scars, even though I was told not to itch.  
Traveling down the middle of my face marks
the only family herloom we have ever had, so I wear it 
proudly like a spoken word.  My voice 
never shakes–not even to tell the stories
of my matching moles on each hand where
the middle finger meets my pointer.  Others are 
less natural but worth telling just the same, 
like the short story on the bottom of my right leg 
from when I rushed to shave before our last date
or the memory on my knee of running into
a table in the basement of my best friend’s house
one July. Haikus sit on my crooked pinky toes, 
both broken once or twice from
the clumsiness that marks me.