Ask Where I’ve Been

Let fingers roamthe busy anglesof my shoulders.Ask why skin driesin rime-white patches, crackslike a puddle stepped on. Askabout the scars that interruptblacktop—the keloid on my bicep,a fogged window. Ask how manydays passed before the eyebrow healedafter a metal spike was torn out,uprooted lamppost in a tornado.Ask about the tornadoof fists. The blows landed. If you canwatch it all—the spit and blood frozenagainst snow, you can probably tellI am the too-narrow road winding outof a crooked city built of laughter,asphalt, and abandon.Ask only if you can watch streetlights bow,bridges arc, and power lines sag,and still believe what matters mostis not where I bendbut where I am growing.