On My Right Hand

On my right hand, an action replay,
a permanent shadowy mark, and I seem
to have forgiven the pain or the stains
of grease that devoured her kitchen.

Yet, the scar makes me recall how she cowered
shrieking when flames licked the curtains
and climbed the steep wall as I rushed in
from next door to put the fire out,
not quite knowing how; maybe because I had
the larger hand with knots and notches.

I thanked God later for letting me take command
in an impromptu battle and carry my weight,
--contrary to my nature-- as my spare fingers
wound the gauze around the burn and the panic.

In the broken remains of events, the cell memory
of a shriveled epidermis and a new panorama
of myself, like a love note cradling an insight.
Grasping the logic of the wound, I easily see
there is poetry in a scar and an able hand
with ragged cuticles can gain distinction.