Your first scar is not your last scar.

Prose poem for hot August days.

Your first scar is not your last scar. That time you fell, your body taught itself how to sheathe your cut. It is a beautiful thing, how ducks return to the same swamp every year. How trees remember last year’s thirst. How, when you tripped on that old memory and spilled your words, they floated off to new fields. How grass braids in your hands, the tas…