Knocked Bone

The coffee table corner, sharp.

My own damn fault, I wasn't looking.

A thud, a white burst, then the harp

of pain, dull and steadily cooking

underneath the skin.

I rub it, tracing the familiar knob,

the bone, hard as any stone.

A small, pale scar, a tiny job

of stitching up a fall, long since outgrown.

I can almost feel the old gravel

piercing it, a forgotten travel.

How easily the body breaks.

How little it takes to jar

something loose, for memory's sake.

A sudden ache, a distant star.