I asked for pain
In the form of a swung fist, begged
For swelling plum and deep peach to crowd around my eye.
I wanted Sunday school, myself
To be eleven, hand shot up and smugly hyper-right
In all I knew. I wanted to throw a baseball
And devil take it, let it land, hit, or smash what it may.
And so, soul and bodily, I hurled it all away.
My cheekbone opened like a rose.
And yes, the years fell back, and stood to watch
But I cracked wide and broke
Against a truth of consequence and cost.
I read: even a plague of frogs is an act of loving grace.
(I will be something better for these bruises on my face.)