Do you spend time with them? Tracing the scar,comparing the sizes now – one falling lowthe other upheld by the lines the knife left,empty for everything it took out?After a long shower in our small roomin Vernazza, you asked if I had ever seen it –that I might as well – and opened your robe for me,looking down at your asymmetrical chestlike memorabilia from the war. Do they hurt, mom?These days you have newer wounds to lick:uneven stairs laugh at you, sixty-five and kicking,vertebras still healing like fractured roof shinglesyou can’t climb to fix. In this town, the swallows follow youeverywhere. You walk slow into the vineyards,cold French sun pressing down into your UV-protectedshirt, tightly wrapping a body you’re still learning to love,slowly, armoring your breasts against any wandering ray.