September 2009

by Michael R. Fosburg

She fell, again, scraped her knee

on the sun-warmed curb

and came crying

to my side.

She had never before

seen blood.

I shushed her, unfolded

a bright blue band-aid

across the weeping gash

and cupped her cheek.

(Scars on my palm

pale like dried canals)

“Everything bleeds,” I said,

and sent her off to play.

Even us, now.

I savored the thought,

our mortal stink

and sweat

sweeter

than all of Heaven’s stardust.