The Scar

I was spreading myself across the earth
during my third hug around
the sun. My mother’s hands were
matting between the folds of clothing, nourishing
something mushing in the kitchen, and humming
to the kissing of lashes across my eyes.  She was
mastering the maneuverability of motherhood. I was

fanning out across the then brown carpet,
thinking I am three and I am going
to remember this moment
for as long as I can remember. I was being

laid down for a nightnight. The window was
tracing in blue while my eyes were unclosing
to the cult of waking curiosity. I rose
for the sill to plant my eyes in
the yard. I saw bricks. Bricks
and browning green of land. Fading
birds beaking each other along wires
spreading like wagering snakes.
The only lonely cloud was sinking

back behind the roof until my toes tapped.
Until the screen gave and I was
gone headfirst into the bricks
below. The last I
saw,

my mother was plucking me up with a towel
spreading fresh into blood, burying my eyes
so I couldn’t see or comprehend how
red would spread into the being of the land.