You brush my slivered scar an inch
above my brow, a silver star
of windshield struck by a rock — fun story.
Dad served at Landstuhl Hospital,
and in my sixth or seventh year
I met our German landlord's daughter
for the first time, in the backyard.
She replied "Nein" when I inquired
"Sprechen Sie Englisch?" Practical
vocabulary gone, what next?
Count eins to zehn? Express my love
for Schokolade? Her solution:
action, the universal language.
A log lay moldering in leaves,
smaller but denser than a Fusball.
As if to start a game of dodgelog,
she seized the wood and split my head,
flurrying bark and wafting cobwebs,
followed by blood, its thickness filling
my sight and smell, resting last
against my lips. She laughed at damage
as you do too. Although we bound
the wound, a splinter, like a shadow
or a tattoo of sound, lodged deep
in flesh and memory — and now
I hope to feel your lips against it.