Like Magic

[bruorton]

How lightly is the mortal set aside, laughing.
How little is made of it to the anxious inquiry:
"It was a tree branch in the dark," I say,
"but I protected my eye with my face."
Hence this little T-shaped rent, see, just under
my right eye, already sealed and healing.

I do not speak of how I was running full out
in the dark, because I thought I knew my way.
I do not describe the cedar twig, a good finger's
width, snapped off and worn by time as smooth
as a lance, as the shaft of an arrow.
I do not mention the moment of impact,

the bright white flash I saw in the lightless dusk.
The fall to my knees as my hand fluttered up,
a protective impulse come far too late; how
when it came back down it had inexplicably
acquired a contact lens, and a thick drizzle
of blood.  I do not try to evoke for them that

instant, when I thought the worst had happened.
I do not recount that it will not be until an hour
later, already with friends and making light of my
misfortune, that my imagination will conjure up
even worse than that worst.  Of how easily
that spike might have been hanging there for years

waiting for me to come along and impale myself
on it, to run at it and drive it deep into my brain.

Instead, every time I'm asked, I tell the same little
joke. And every time tragedy unravels, as the
concerned countenance of each friend transforms
suddenly into laughter, like magic.