dinner.

each burn burned into my forearm
seems to say
         this is past
you cannot touch me with the same fire and sear
the ways of learned mistakes and accidents
that cannot be erased unless
you think against the fire and convinced
         emerge healed
with new skin and new hair
different but fine
as a temporary coat
to prevent the boiling water from steaming your index
and the activated oil from touching your face
as if they could ever change you from who you were
you know who you are
         for now
and you know where you are
         right now
among friends around the dinner table with napkins at hand
and forks and knives at a safe distance
and spoons reflecting all that you have made for yourself

you, in your seat, looking at the gauze and bandage stuck on your forearm,
hope it is all good to taste.