THE CICATRIX by Estan Rodriguez (17, Virginia)

Knots swell around
pruned branches. Limbs died here
once. If some branches live 
for bird nests, then perhaps
these tumors also live.
A nuthatch caching in a knar
seems to think so.

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An oyster cannot flick off
the grain burning on his tongue.
So he locks it within porcelain
layers. It never leaves,
but room for its contemplation
fades. At the end of the day,
the oyster has a pearl to boast.

When I fell off my bike, I felt
my heartbeat throb wet
on the palm of my hand. 
Through the pain, I learned I have
beautiful scarlet beads of blood.
Through the scar, which bloomed
in raised white petals, I learned I will,
somehow, always heal