A boy named Craig in second grade
shorter than me but stronger
lifted a stone size of a hubcap
and dropped it on my head
digging a divot of hair and flesh
lubricated by red blood
astonishing us both.
Craig picked up my scrap of scalp
and dangled it dripping from fingers,
couldn’t answer why as teachers came running
but it was the last we saw of Craig.
From that day
I had a bald spot, a scar like a dead leaf
top of my head
which seemed not part of me
but carried by me
inanimate
detached like senseless violence.
A bold girl named Betsy
touched it once and let me
touch her nipple. Just one touch,
one nipple. Then we threw stones into water
to watch them splash and sink
and disappear.
Sometimes yet in autumn
when the leaves let go in breeze
with a sound like Betsy’s whisper
I see that nipple a tattoo that glows and grows
giving, giving
against the luff of air
as we flutter, as we briefly fly.
Joe Cottonwood lives under redwood trees in La Honda, California dodging wildfires and playing with grandchildren. He is the author of the underground novel Famous Potatoes. His most recent book of poetry is Random Saints.