For the first time in my life, in the soggy camp woods
I felt the life in me; water full to the brim of a steel bucket,
lapping at the edges,
drops sliding over the edge and falling to nothingness.
I was eight, lying on the soft, rain-soaked earth
watching the sky with its lovely green leafed frame.
The cut in my neck the fluttering gills of a fish,
desperately seeking breath.
“Is it deep enough that I will die?”
I’d wanted to ask the hazy glow of people above me.
My lips had moved anyway,
because from some indistinguishable place I heard the reply,
“No, of course not. You’ll be just fine.”
Years later I still can’t remember any pain,
just the curious frightened glances of my fellow campers,
feeling popular and brave.
I who bears the thin pale scar, who am still living,
still looking up to the mid-day sun,
smiling at its beauty
and the curious dizziness of my spinning world.
