Mine was a child’s fall,

the hurt a mother or father can more or less fix

with Band-aids, a kiss. Almost to the top

of the steep concrete steps to the gym,

my toe jammed. Caught my weight on stiff arms.

(Decent reflexes for sixty-three.) Spectacularly

bloody, my scraped-raw palms, skinned knees.

The healing, though! I was obsessed.

Hands held out, fingers splayed. Imagine:

all those invisible cells repairing.

First the shredded skin—it dried overnight

the way a fallen leaf dries.

Next the archipelago of scabs.

The clear plastic film of scar.

After a week, good as new.

Nine months ago, my father died.

Every day at least once but usually more

I think, You are gone from this world

where you lived all my life.

It seems a miracle.