They used a saw to remove
the cast. It screamed. The scar
remains, pale silent stitches
from wrist past elbow.
She held herself
together. She healed, his absence
a pallid emptiness.
It's a dark night, a slight moon.
She wakes in the breeze
of the ceiling fan.
She sinks into deep
mattresses; the sweetness
of strawberries on tart lemon cake;
the full scent of grass, just mowed,
lying down on its own fresh self;
the soft underwater feel of a tree-
shaded room. Even the smoke
from mountain fires,
the taste of ashes in her mouth.
Even that pleases her, reminds her
that she lives.
--
~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com |
On Sat, Jul 12, 2008 at 10:37 AM, sharon brogan <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> Quite young, I broke my arm.
> Old now, still the scar remains,
> a pale and silent remnant, like
> small white stitches from wrist
> past elbow. They used a saw
> to remove the cast.
>
> It screamed. Your leaving
> was like an invisible limb ripped
> from my body, torn flesh, no neat
> scalpel wound. I held myself
> together. I healed. All that's left
> is the suggestion of a scar, a pallid
>
> emptiness. I wake in the night
> to write this, in the breeze
> of the ceiling fan. It's a dark night,
> a slight moon. Chill approaches
> the record low for this hot month
> by human reckoning. I have
>
> softened, comfort is my pleasure
> now, passion a fading mark
> in memory, sensuality its remnant.
> Deep mattresses; the sweetness
> of strawberries on tart lemon cake;
> the full scent of grass, just mowed,
>
> lying down on its own fresh self;
> the soft underwater feel of a tree-
> shaded room. Even the smoke from
> mountain fires, the taste of ashes
> in my mouth. Even that pleases me,
> reminds me that I live.
>
>
|