Five Fewer Teeth
My grandmother lies beyond that door
in the Trauma Ward.
A postal truck knocked her
to the ground
with a run in your hose
stones caught in the weave of your dress.
You lean on your right arm
like Cleopatra
with a concussion
and say, "Just let me
get up.
My arm's falling
asleep. I can walk
home. I'm fine."
Fine: A broken nose, five teeth knocked out,
blood running from
behind your ear.
Fine: They had to drive the truck
forward
to free your foot from
under the rear wheel.
The truck might not have stopped.
It could have rolled right over you,
bones, teeth, and all.