In the spring of 1964, Tanya and I and our…
Rural Stigmata
I’ve nurtured the glowing wound:
peroxide, salve,
bandages. I’ve done right
by this one. The rawness eased,
was replaced
by budding infant
cells. Trenches formed
in the nickel-sized spot
where my fate and life lines
intersected the injury,
two deep vertical red
canals in a waxy purple-pink
circle: a burnt pig’s nose,
some grotesque
electrical outlet, the mark
of blaze to come.