- First Year
Mine was a child’s fall,the hurt a mother or father can more or less fixwith Band-Aids, a kiss. Almost to the topof the steep concrete steps to the gym,my toe jammed. Caught my weight on stiff arms.(Decent reflexes for sixty-three.) Spectacularlybloody, 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 overnightthe 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 moreI think, You are gone from this worldwhere you lived all my life.It seems a miracle. [End Page 737]
Ashley Mace Havird’s most recent collection of poems, The Garden of the Fugitives, won the 2013 X. J. Kennedy Prize. Her novel, Lightningstruck, won the 2015 Ferrol Sams Award.