Bruise by Cynthia Zarin

Bruise

 

          Black bruise an inch

below my knee; white bone, my

     kneecap wrenched askew;

 

          knee a blind eye, bruise

a shiner, the pair of them two

     goggle-eyes, bridged by

 

          a shiny, half-moon scar.

A battered aviatrix? She

     flies above a dream island.

 

          At three, I fell from

a knee-high curb. Mind yourself,

     I hear the voices say,

 

          when decades later,

in the bath, my knee, drowned

     face, knucklehead, rises

 

          above the water table,

volcano with its violet flame.

     Bedpost? Doorjamb?

 

          The hours last week

turned to glass? And if asked

     to swear to it, say

 

          what’s to blame?

The mind trolls, reels back,

     and begins, and begins

 

          again to prove how if

I’d only done that one thing—

     but there are so many.