Scar Tissue

I try to imagine/try not to imagineMy mother’s flesh parted under white lightThe noise the substitution must makeAnd what becomes of the old bone?The fused connection born of my grandmotherWho long ago gave up the heels she used to dance inShe envied how they looked on meAnd I think of that as my own joints acheMy knee giving way suddenly on the stairShe sleeps now more often than notThe pond outside her hospice windowUnseen in snow and sun and flutter of leaves...Is there a shine on the new parts?Inside, where no light should again penetrateOr does it rest dully within the webOf blood vessels and connective tissueGrowing ‘round it like a treeCradles farm implements left in the fieldAn oak lifting a chassis above the loamMy fingers probe my own scarsSeam where life from life from life emergedWhile my mother heals and Nana dreamsOf the tart taste of lemons andOf dancing dresses her mother madeAnd did she ever prick a finger while she sewed?Blood staining each generation in turnThe little tears in the fabric stitched closedBut leaving a mark to remember the wound