permanent scar

It was clear
It was bright
It was carefully defined,
observed from a stillness never since known.

I was dying
Or might have been.
The blood running out
I remember no pain.



Years later he reported
I’d run through a stained glass window
--A breathtaking notion.
But it was a sliding door,
and it wasn’t stained until I got there.


The hard bone of my head
broke the glass
The soft under my
chin took the spike
and I dangled
crystal clear
Beautiful stretcher
bearer. Mother’s
bloody warm fingers
and moving mouth
willing me to stay.

Thirty-eight years later
The pictures are clear.