your body’s first response to a bone fracture is, simply,

to bleed. & isn’t it something almost-like magic the way

an animal knows how to heal? this knitting of instinct &

kismet & sunbaked top-40 & the way my gray hair grows

towards the light, as if to say: heaven knows, heaven knows.

oh, my child: haven’t you grown? & haven’t you seen how

the finger lakes stretch & flex & crack their knuckles like

teenagers mixing pop rocks & coke for the very first time;

& what first-date jitters we make of fireworks & clean teeth,

as if to say: you live inside the open mouth of an animal who

wants you dead. & you call this home, you call this country.

you call this america—& you call your mother, the only

number you still know by memory, & she answers on the

third ring, as if to say: oh, darling—you look so pretty by all

this blue! oh love, the water has always suited you! & you

know that blood is a blessing; know how your grandmother

laid down in the soil one night in late-May & folded her skin 

into tulip seams & marigold leaves & all other such wilder-

ness you try & grow, still. know how you pray for rain, & 

call it family reunion. know how laura says do whatever

you want it’s the end of times & you say at least there’s a

lovely sea breeze—know how the day drifts on: & so do i,

& so do i.