Katy has Scars

My friend Katy is a partner in the firm.
She struts statuesque in box heel shoes, three-button power suits,
a spiky razor-cut.
My eyes are drawn to a row of small tooth viper wounds,
faint puckers in the fleshy web between thumb and forefinger.
This is the place where brother Kurt drove deep a three-tined fork
all those years ago.
With a chuckle and shrug,
she has forgotten his reason.

Katy’s mama called Brownie “Kurt’s dog,”
and Kurt rode a chrome-fendered two-wheeler
while Katy watched from the porch swing.
His table manners set aside, he enjoyed the
thicker slice of pie
all those years ago.
With a furrow and slump,
she still wonders why.