Kate Stoltzfus

I try to anticipate the wound
for the second time. I ask the nurse if
I launch across handlebars, flay a tooth,
will spring stems break from cement?
he says every stoplight’s
blood-thick tongue bites before it
forgives. dogs pant in front yards
facing the sky

so I’ll heal without marks:
I can pick the thread color for my stitches,
jaw fissured deep enough to feel how
my teeth sharpen my throat.
pulse is too quick. what first changed you
scabs over clean. my brakes not enough,
like tiny bears set free from hibernation,
until a stranger checks on me too soon

this is the spring I open my chin
and every hurt lands the same.
my aches want out. we’re older now. 
the one I love like my own skin waits;
never leaves. I watch the road.
my bike bellies down. my body still
waiting for release; I am jealous of it all.
please don’t try to help me up