in the aftermath
of my faceplant
the world sparkled
and danced;
summer had settled
into cicada song
and cloudless skies.
trees dared me
to climb
them.
fence tops were
accessible high
wires.
hours barricaded
within school schedules
now flexed
and flowed,
adventures marked the days
not homework,
not chores.
neighbours reported
fleeting glimpses
of a wildling
tumbling
through yards
and
hedgerows.
sunburned and
scampering,
that was me,
5 minutes ago.
somewhere
off to my left
the growing
siren
of my grandmother's
distress
uncoiled
spinning both
warning and
woe.
any movement
sparked starbursts
and
pinlike
nips
up and down
my neck.
i considered
the small bits
of my teeth
floating
between
gums
and
lip.
some grains
were
odd
puzzle pieces.
others slid
aimlessly
and escaped down
my throat.
i was bleeding
and worrying
and hoping
that the
remaining weekend
would not
be spent indoors,
recovering.
the couch
in the upstairs
bedroom
was
not comfortable.
and
it's secret
fold-out identity
of
broken springs
and
sinkholes
now taunted me.
my eyes locked
on a swaying
milkweed.
the white tuft
bursting out
of the paisley
cone
seemed to be
pink hued.
obviously
I had forgotten
how to
colour balance.
fence balance too.
years later
my grandmother
would recount
that
it was the
dull thump
that drew her out
of her garden
away
from her onions and potatoes,
instead of
my wailing.
the back door
never closed
right or tight
and mystically
it was somehow
an auspicious
invite to
guests.
and she never
liked her
neighbours.
ironically,
I’d argue instead,
I never cried out
and definitely
did not remember
hitting
my head.
I could taste
and smell sweat,
blood,
and dirt.
I was hurt,
but also knew
what it could
mean
for the remains of
the day.
and injury
was only made
more real
by an elder's
appraisal.
co zrobiłeś?-what have you done?
she’s talking to me.
becoming undone.
admonishing herself.
crafting an alibi.
premeditation,
accusation,
deference,
and pretext defense,
all sweating through
the Polish
equivalent
of
WTF
just happened?
I wiped the edge
of my lip.
the soft underparts
of my tongue snagged
a bit
on something
sharp.
looking back
there really is
no maximum number
that
5 year olds must
answer for the line
'Haven’t I told you
before?'
or
'What happened
this time?'
but guaranteed
the universe conspires
against worried
adults
convincing them
the importance
of results
over show.
and that
the best course of
action when
consoling
a crying child
is to ask
‘Didn’t I tell
you though?’
my babcia-
sturdy, strident,
and imposing
appeared
at the patio's
edge.
she held a large
knife
and a grim
grin to match.
i had a sense
that
further injury
would be dispatched
and
may be necessary in
order to disentangle
me
from the brambly
thatch.
it was better
that i tumbled left
into the hedge,
and then over
the concrete wall,
not right.
lying beside it,
holding
my breath,
eyes closed tight
I was sure I’d
disturbed
the devil
inside
of that
blue barrel.
if I had even
nudged
the fly screen
protecting the
homemade raspberry
babuni
burping in the
mid day sun
my dziadek
would have sensed
it.
summoning him
from his work
shed
before dinner
was dangerous.
i know the
old stories.
i feared the
old stories.
the tales of anger
and alcohol
tempered
by absolution and impunity
were canon.
the blade
she held was
preternaturally
long.
it was made to kill
giants
not chop dill.
still
it’s existence suggested
something
more mundane.
that my babcia
had been
trimming the stems of 1000 tomatoes
or
cutting swathes of upholstery
or
stain scraping her plywood cutting board
or
cleaving meat for patyczki.
her cat scratched
bare arms and
soiled apron were
earned from
earnest
earthen work.
I would be told later
in life that
the knife
was a first
purchase
when they moved
to Canada.
it held the title
of first born
amongst
other household
tools,
long before
there was even
a house
to hold.
it seems more
likely
it had been pulled
from stone
than a
thrift store for
a couple
of bucks.
it was forged
to separate.
the blade's purpose
was inarguable.
like how a
sports car evokes
speed even when
standing
still.
dazedly i realized
in relief
that
I had never
seen
my dziadek
holding
that knife.
bądź cicho!- Be quiet!
Then, just- Cicho!
Chodź tu- come here!
my brain could not,
but my body somehow
complied.
enthralled
i shuffled up
before
her
stuffed with fear
and tried
to will myself
to disappear.
the knife
upright
and turned 90 degrees
no longer posed the
same threat
to me.
i could just barely
see
a murky
slim sliver of
my reflection above
it’s wooden hilt.
a hand clamped
to the back of
my head
and tilted.
the flat side
of the blade
pressed into my
nose from tip
to brow.
I’d seen this same
treatment
of herbs
and garlic
on the
chopping block.
was this their pain
too?
my mom arrived
in time
to hear my
cries-
no babcia
don't cut off
my nose!
I tried
to get free
my mom
met her mom's
eyes
instantly
she chose
stillness
over me
and allowed
the treatment
to proceed.
na obrzęk-for the swelling.
she nodded
and so did my mom.
I sobbed.
she checked my eyes,
then over her
right
shoulder at the
work shed.
my bruised brow
slowly forgot
it’s trauma.
somehow
the cool pressure
released the weekend
from its carceral
future.
fear and relief
fear and relief
fear and relief-
waves that I
somehow craved,
washed over my
face.
the snide
pull out
couch's grip
slowly faded
from the
afternoon.
this was not my
first lesson
in bottom cupboard
first aid.
honey and onion for
a sore throat.
brandy for colds.
for an upset stomach, coke.
cabbage for sprains.
magic remedies
for needless injuries
and imagined pain
I seemed
to inflict
regularly
on myself.
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words keep wolves at bay 