Proud Flesh

Dad doctors Rudy’s leg, 
torn and jagged 
just above the hoof 
enmeshed in barbed wire. 
I watch him smooth salve, 
his fingers caressing 
our horse’s wound grown dark,
the flesh made stronger 
by Father’s benediction. 
He teaches me about proud flesh,
how growth fills the hole 
of every wound. 

Over time 
in Father’s flesh 
that abundance comes back 
with the same passion— 
the reddened mound 
in the center of his chest 
after the bolthole 
when he fell from a runaway, 
the scar tissue like a night crawler
encircling and stiffening 
his forefinger that slipped 
into a blade at the sawmill, 
the traffic of time 
making wounds, lines 
to harrow his face 
like a farm field. 

Inside his casket 
where his flesh lies 
withered from his normal weight,
wounds echo in my head, 
reverberate in my flesh, 
all flesh being proud, 
proud all the way 
through the end.