Lawn Dart Logic

November pulls the skin across my knee,

a tight reminder of a clumsy year.

The rug bunched up, a wave I didn't see,

and suddenly the table edge was near.

It’s been twenty years since the stitches came out,

leaving a map of a fall in the den.

The white, shiny texture puts the story in doubt—

I can't remember being that small back then.

I look at the coffee table now, the sharp oak,

waiting for me to misstep in the dark.

The body remembers every bone that we broke,

and keeps the light on the mark.