I write this with my left hand because my right is turning purple.
In my lap, a lake spreads out from the wrist, swollen fingers. I fell in the rain. Red burst from my knee, and then slower, a purple stain appeared from behind my veins. I skinned my knee and sprained my wrist on the sidewalks of that old town, running away.
I would call this a sign except there have been so many.
Last night, more. Last night, the young familiar calves and colts, and a first for me: a baby bobcat, mythic, half a pig and half a cat, pinned ears, patiently waiting for my headlights, then snorting away into the grass. Ohio bobcat. Deer grazed among the hay bales. Pink lightning. Hail and rain. I couldn’t see. I drove with a hardening hand. I drove with blood running down my knee. I drove listening to Sonny and Cher because I couldn’t think of a more unfitting thing to hear. I didn’t say my usual prayer when driving through downpours or tornados or snow, which is help me.
I don’t need to be helped. I have been helped. I want to help; I have things to do. My prayer was: Keep me safe.
