Storm Door

She pointed at my arm. What's that.

Storm door. I was nine.

Glass came down like a thing

that was always going to.

Cool, she said. Left the room.

I stood at the sink, suds

drying on the scar—

this white ridge, older than her

by twenty-six years—

and she gave it a syllable.

Not even a question mark. A period.

It's not her story.

It's barely mine.

Just a line on my arm

that nobody asks me

to finish.