Peripheral Impact

It showed up like a storm on a map,

a yellowish smudge on my hip.

I don't remember the door frame

or the edge of the table I hit.

The waistband of my jeans catches it

every time I lean over the sink.

A dull, private ache that reminds me

I’m clumsier than I like to think.

It’s a quiet sort of violence

we do to ourselves in the dark,

walking through rooms we should know

and leaving a purple mark.