23 March 2006


The Sort of Thing Claypot Dreamstance Tries to Keep Himself From Saying When He is at the Emergency Room

Carrying pop bottles in one of those cardboard slings. Tripping on concrete steps, the kind that turns bottles into shards. Cutting myself on the razor edge of a piece of glass. Looking along my outstretched arm to a white-smocked doctor leaning over my hand. Registering this image as one of my earliest memories. Filling in the above information by inference and domestic detective work. Examining the scar at the base of my finger. Tracing the inch long ridge, pale and thin, punctuated with five short cross ridges, now fading. Never identifying this constellation as a distinguishing mark on immigration documents.


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