People see my scar and say
You’re lucky.

But when I wake I listen
to make sure she’s breathing.

And in the clearest morning sky
the tiny silver plane appears
to be falling.

Many things burn to the ground.

In a frenzy of pedestrians
a woman sits with an outstretched hand.

Starlings flock to a dirty puddle.
A squirrel bolts through traffic.
Pigeons are aggravated, ground resigned.

Woman with a crew cut on the sidewalk
and her small red bucket.

I put in a few dollars; she says God bless you.
I want to tell her no –
I want nothing from God –

You, you bless me.


Alison Prine
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