Winter 2005-6

Jennie Hair


Once when I was four,
or not much more,
I leaned over a pile of hard sand
Charles Hench was going to soften
with an iron pipe.
Blood poured all over Hughie
O'Neill's kitchen while
they waited for an ambulance.
I lay in someone's lap,
astonished to be the patient.

I had eight stitches, and
a wonderful white turban of
bandage. Charles Hench
promptly rocked into an iron
radiator in his dining room,
got a wound and a bandage
to match mine --
an early boyfriend,
early foli a deux,
portending more.




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