In 1070, when the Bayeux Tapestry drew its first thread through wool and linen, it did not mourn the wound that birthed it. It became the roof.
I am Anna Martinez of Nashville, and I raise my hand to the Scar Festival. My First Slip was not a failure—it was the first stitch in the dome that will hold us all.
At 0400 hours, when the van cracked beneath my mother's hands in the dust of the Rio Grande valley, I did not sweep the shavings. I poured the vein.
At 0347, when the ball kissed the rim of the lunar garden bed, I did not close my eyes. I marked the coordinate.
At the filament of the missing cumin, I did not mourn the loss. I tasted the broth.
At the torque wrench that sang flat on the '65 Mustang, I did not apologize. I filed the true.