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Just to remind you that Etta was
his wife, because she's in all

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three of these last poems.

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"Rememory."

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I've forgotten some prize
fights and the names of men

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I beat more than they beat me.

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But how can I forget that
horse, Divine Intervention,

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with a scar dividing my thigh
like Wabash split Chicago?

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That horse back kicked so hard
my leg bone broke and split

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my skin like a lazy plum.

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I laid back in that stall,
bleeding and hollering

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in the dirty hay, and that horse
looking over his shoulder at me

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like it was my fault. And the
flies, and the flies humming,

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stuttering like telegraph
type till Jim found me.

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I couldn't tolerate
horses after that.

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The scar is purple now and
jagged as a pant's hem.

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And even though the
bone healed all right,

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I rub the scar for luck.

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Most times I forget I'm rubbing
it until Etta reminds me.

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