After supper, in summer, he rides. Gruff little alto,
duc du cul de sac, his handlebar ribbons

rainbow stubble, he pedals furiously, deep in glee.
Only once do we talk and that when,

still astride his trike, he trombones a toy loupe
toward a scrape on my knee and asks

if I cried. Already beadwork, soon that rash will heal
to braille. Not this time I tell him,

but a kid wants to know more: when will he fall
without crying?
                                 Unable to remember

the first time it did not seem an affront—gravity,
gravel—unable to guess when I last cried because I fell,

because a street or a stone broke my skin, I say
I couldn’t say. I do not tell him

Soon, because it will be the truth that hurts. Because
it will be the truth that hurts, I do not even say Soon.