In the mirror I lift my shirt and stare at the spot where I got impaled by a branch in high school when Ronny Martinez piledrove me into a bush outside the bowling alley. A bright line. I admire the way my scar reflects the light, a reminder—more—a sigil of the body’s movement to heal, and the only thing I needed to do for this art in flesh, was to feed myself the meal

that let it happen, that let red blood cells make collegen that night when I returned home.