Birth Marks by Umi Agawa

I coo, peeling off my baby’s onesie for a bath. My finger traces his birthmarks.

Lines across the ribs.

Like the slashes from the thorny branches the day me and my friend scarred the lost fawn.

Blotches on the back.

Like the stones that we cast, laughing and daring.

Missing finger on the right hand.

Shocking, like the crack of the fawn's bone, and the scream of my friend: “Stop!”

Voids behind the eyelids.

Like the repugnant marks I claimed before leaving the poor thing to the scavengers.

Drawing my baby close, I sob. “Mama wishes the karma were mine.”