Peeling Memory

At the park, a kid's shoulders, crimson.

It hit me hard, the ghost of sting.

My feet, two loaves of bread, baking

on asphalt, one August afternoon.

Blistered, taut skin across the arch,

each step a careful, slow march

from the pool to the door.

My mother's aloe, cool but not enough.

The sheets felt like sandpaper,

the air itself, a harsh brush.

Now, his skin, that perfect red,

a mirror for a pain I thought was dead.

It's not. It just waits for the light.