Something lightly touches my skin in the afternoon
Not sure if it’s an insect, the wind, or your pressence
Telling me it’s okay to feel something.

I don’t really remember anymore what it feels like
If your touch was a momentary brushing of skin on skin
Or if it was the creation of my world anew

As a child, I fell on the stairs leading to the kitchen door
There remains a scar on my chin
Some scars aren’t caused by injuries

Memory is a scar sometimes
Now how to apply the poultice