Ouchies

That time I snatched a hole

with my head

hair all sticky, redder than normal,

then rusty, then brown -

That time my skull learned

it was, in fact, not tougher

than the edge of the fridge door,

I remembered -

That time I netted a bump

on the back of my head.

I was three years tall

and the sky so far away -

That time (I still feel

the twine between my fingers)

I kicked my legs up high

on the homemade swing -

My arch peaked, I slipped

off the minty green

linoleum seat (homemade,

like I said) and then I -

flew.

I forgot how I got that

bump on the back of

my head, kept asking

the kind woman -

who leaned over me

with lukewarm peppermint tea

and worry in her pupils, kept

saying her name was “Mama” -

I do remember how I

got this hole in my head, but I keep

forgetting until the comb reminds me

snag, rip (the gash still there) -

for sure, and that old heads don’t

heal better than young ones and

that some memories are best left

where they fell,

on the concrete border of a

flower bed filled with daffodils

and whirlygigs and ruddy

speckles.