Beenie Man’s Girls Dem Sugar playing in the background.

Two-year-old brother having a field day with walking

while I was trying to find new ways to walk 

without drawing attention to my infected toe.

Mama said I didn’t clean my feet good.

I said they always smelled like Witch Hazel.

It was a Saturday and sliced sunlight beamed through the blinds.

Zagga zow, ziggy zow, zagga zow 

A Tonka truck and a toddler shoe flew across the living room,

followed by an eruption of high pitch laughter—the things toddlers do.

My shoulders began to groove—nothing like the bass getting caught up in your bones.

Next thing, Mars, sky and the moon came crashing down on my toe.

Bright blood and pus splattered like ink from a busted pen.

Brother one-shoed with a flamed spec giggle down the hallway.

I, blazing throat, wailed about what he did.

Mama peeked out the bathroom with a curling iron in her hand.

Boy you betta get that mess up out my carpet.

Like I haven’t gone through enough:

like that crummy doctor remedied my purple pain 

and didn’t send me home with half a toenail—called it an ingrown,

like Mama had been showing me tender care since the beginning,

a care that felt nearly as good as the simple song 

I will take the stars out the sky for you (zagga, zagga zow)

There's nothin' in this world