The fault line of child’s scalp
once unmapped, exposed, incised
from nape to forehead, nubby
cross-stitch swollen pink no
French knot elegance,
the doctor dusted off blade, this mother
steeled herself against sultry sinew,
against fracas of molecules pooling
where she wants incisive decision
no clapboard dashed-together nail
and rail affair—she wants tender
at the bone, the territory charted,
each one’s scan like Saturn’s
rings, familiar.
Light passes through orbital
bone, socket of eye, the world
her child sees but doesn’t
yet know, masses outside the gate.
