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I've forgotten some prizefights,
the names of men I beat more

than they beat me, but how can
I forget Divine Intervention

with a scar dividing my thigh
like Wabash splits Chicago?

That horse back-kicked so hard
my leg bone broke, split skin

like a lazy plum. I layed back
in that stall bleeding & hollering

in the dirty hay, that horse looking
over his shoulder at me like

it was my fault & the flies
& the flies' humming stuttering

like telegraph type until Jim
found me. I couldn't tend horses

after that. The scar is purple now.
Jagged as a pant's hem.

Even though the bone healed
all right, I rub the scar for luck.

Most times, I forget I'm rubbing
until Etta reminds me.

© Originally appeared in Crab Orchard Review