The Mark

He pulled his sock down to show the red scrape

where the gravel caught him near the fence.

But higher up, just above the ankle bone,

was the stain I’ve known since I could walk.

It’s a dull brown smudge, like a thumbprint

left by a tired god or a messy father.

I looked at my own leg, the same dark island.

The map is already printed in the marrow.

He has the same blood, the same quiet temper,

and the same mark of the place we can’t outrun.