Since November 26, 1986

A small, ridged scar
graces my writing hand,
almost within the web of flesh
from thumb to forefinger.
It watches the pen
as I write.

Once sliced and stitched,
its raised white line
is a mark of my tribe:
those left bleeding
along the road.

I am fortunate,
allowed time to heal
the nineteen bones which broke,
the countless lacerations.

Too many are lost
forever between mile markers,
spirits who never arrive,
bound to crosses
which line our paths.

This scar
pushes the pen forward,
drives me
through my days
and nights.

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5 thoughts on “Since November 26, 1986

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