I ask for the grace of a new freckle on my cheek
—Aimee Nezhukumatathil

A vicious burn,
skin weeping blisters
after the sun,

scabbed over night
then peeled off in chunks,
the way time goes,

like the morning, age 4,
I looked in the bathroom mirror
and first saw my face

fully molted, not my mother’s
anymore, hashed at odd angles,
freakishly tread,

like the leg that would catch
in a bicycle wheel
a few months later

and grind to a pulp.
Who watched
as the brakes failed

and I screamed at the girl
who was steering
to stop? Who was she?

Who knows? Why did I
scream the loudest
when the salve went on?