The Scar

I have a hole in my left hand. Not the kind of pit you might expect from punching a well. More like a planting trough the size of an iris inside the eye - shallow, round-poked with sides slanting up and away from the epicenter. It was the easy the first time when my hand melted down the hotwater pipe. Don't recall a thing. But the hand remembers, shows constant movies of miniature storms, electric flooding, magma across the palm and I'm there, two-years old, falling from the basement stairs, reaching out. The surgeon pulled me in and needled me under. Grafted skin from my thigh and made the hole so the hand could stretch. The scar was still too young to move on its own.

appeared in Black Warrior Review Limited Online

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