Practice

The lacerations outside

and within the lower lip

don’t communicate. One

is vertical, the other supine

and jeweled. The shallow

slash bled more, coating

her teeth rust. They thought

she’d lost some teeth.

Her brother’s fear makes

her cry. The other child

has two puncture wounds

where the dog took hold.

The uncle stopped her

from pulling away so

the skin wouldn’t tear

into flaps. At the time,

no one understood why

he clasped them together.

Our gowns wear thin.

A small island marks

the left side of the fifth

boy’s forehead, above

the eyebrow. He fell once

and was glued. Four days

later, he fell again. Now

he can’t wet his head or

the second wound, the one

that can’t be glued, will

release and flare. We line up

before the Tumbling E.

We don’t remember names.

They arrive on sunny days

in winter and wait beside

the aquarium. The ninth

or tenth needs a singed cast

removed. Her father

brought her. The mother

remains angry and away.

Halos of blisters are the fault

of the fire makers. We wrap

their children in sheets

and tape them to boards.

We hold their skulls until

our arms quiver and their

faces bead. They arrive

in rain without shoes.

Some break into song

and some can’t breathe,

lips clamped bluish over

tight-hinged throats.

We count the rise and fall,

lay the fields and reach

around them. We run

before the little weight

goes limp. The gun bumps

marrow. We hold the note.

We hold the strings taut.