I can’t quite remember

when I stopped crying. Maybe it was after four-

year-old hands

safety-scissored off part

of layered, left index finger

with acute innocence.

Perhaps

it was when 1995 eyes

were introduced to low ceilings and overcrowded

cribs. Then again, maybe

it was as this stranger of a body

lay fetal with porcelain

tub, wanting to drain itself

of remorse. I can —

however — remember

recovering a smile, as scarred,

left index finger

learned to fret down

mahogany neck. And just

the other day, 2015

eyes began to see

objects

as subjects, a re-

minder for nineteen-year-old

lungs to keep

oxygenating.