After three months, only a thin white line remains,

the cut almost vanishing into her wrist

as into the dusk, a spider’s fine filament.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle

as the freshmen file one by one into her classroom.

She can’t recall the story she’d asked them

to read, the plot she’d wanted to teach.

Instead, she gathers them up

and they walk to a nearby park. They stop

in front of the aviary, stare

into its enormous depths empty of birds

except for a single pigeon.

She’d assigned the students to describe

one of the marble goddesses

inhabiting the park’s grounds and fountains, imagine

some kind of drama.

No one noticed her arm’s pale bracelet

any longer

though for a few weeks of autumn

it had been the first unasked question.

No one starts the story about a statue.

Instead, she and the students spend the morning

clipping open a hole large enough

for a pigeon

                    to escape from an aviary.