Just to remind you that Etta was his wife, because she's in all
three of these last poems.
"Rememory."
I've forgotten some prize fights and the names of men
I beat more than they beat me.
But how can I forget that horse, Divine Intervention,
with a scar dividing my thigh like Wabash split Chicago?
That horse back kicked so hard my leg bone broke and split
my skin like a lazy plum.
I laid back in that stall, bleeding and hollering
in the dirty hay, and that horse looking over his shoulder at me
like it was my fault. And the flies, and the flies humming,
stuttering like telegraph type till Jim found me.
I couldn't tolerate horses after that.
The scar is purple now and jagged as a pant's hem.
And even though the bone healed all right,
I rub the scar for luck.
Most times I forget I'm rubbing it until Etta reminds me.