My Wrist
A dozen little
bones define it
bounded by sinew
balanced by blood
blue veins and
crimson capillaries
When I was ten I
fell in the grass
the green grain
concealed stone serrations
I remember red
blood and yellow fat
and skin that
flared out like torn fabric
six stitches and a
tetanus shot
gauze and tape and
antiseptic
It was a clean cut
and healed quickly
the gauze came off
and the stitches out
but the crooked
scar etched on my wrist
makes me wonder
what would have been
if that rock
missed the fat and hit a vein instead
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