an ode to patellar contusions by Kyrah Gomes (17, New York)*

my scraped knees are tinted with the primary colored paint 
of the schoolyard. the memories have cheapened but they hurt
still, sepia-toned yet somehow fresher than morning dew. 

i scrubbed at them with the bristles of dollar-store toothbrushes dipped
in rubbing alcohol, secretly relishing the burn. the scratches on my
palm disappear in the daylight, simple wounds of self-protection. 

---

sometimes i pick at the half-healed scabs, pink-backed and ringed in white.
every year has added another layer, but my mother’s fingers peel the
barbed-wire worries from my skin. suddenly i am nine years old again, 

made of strawberry jam, in a world as soft as rabbit fur - not innocent,
but still simple. i want to wrap these moments in silk and swallow them,
settled inside my heart forever, right between my aorta and right atrium 

so they can trickle slowly into my pulse. the world has shifted since then,
but the sun still knows all of my secrets, like how i still count my steps
endlessly in my head, one-two-three, always with the right foot first, 

a teabag steeped in superstition and perched on the edge of bitterness.
my mother, my muse - i vow to wear my bruised knees and bright colors
proudly like she taught me, swim in the midnight gulf of my dreams, 

hold my heart in my hands and let beams of sunlight shine through the cracks.
for now i make her orange-scented scones, drizzle them in a sticky-sweet glaze
​of all the things i am unsure of how to say - thank you, i’m sorry, i love you.

​