I heard pretty first, then
party: my ninth birthday—
perched up on our garden wall,
hugging my wounded knees.
Jump the other children shouted.
Don’t I thought, and did, and
tried to laugh it off, to move.
Heads bobbed above me like apples in a tub.
Pain, I thought, is French for bread.
Cooks and nurses carried me to bed.
thought I was getting a pony.