against the shed, my bike leans, rusting. i pick off my legs a handful of sand spurs.
i save them in a jar.
i save everything that cuts me, from paper to razors to teeth. the first time i fainted, the doctor
blamed me.
possibly, i forgot to eat, or misfired a synapse. i lay there shirtless & thirteen.
my mom took me to get blessed by the priest. i pedal to the end of the island, to the private
airstrip.
a woman & her shih tzu descend from a cessna. as long as i didn’t fidget, the nurse offered me a
popsicle.
i had a choice of mango or grape. i remember his thumb on my forehead, & incense.
in my water bottle, a salt tablet hisses as it dissolves. i expect a snake to appear, eager for my
heel.
the first time i got bit, it got away.
Maria Hiers (she/her) is pursuing her MFA in poetry at the University of Houston. She is the assistant non-fiction editor at Gulf Coast. Her poems have most recently appeared in Harpur Palate and The Shore.