It’s a dark night,
a slight moon.

The scar remains,
pale silent stitches

from wrist past elbow.
She held herself

together. She healed.
They used a saw

to remove the cast.
It screamed.

She wakes in the breeze
of the ceiling fan,

sinks into deep
mattresses; the sweetness

of strawberries; 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 taste
of mountain fires,

smoke in her mouth.
Even that pleases her.

  

16 July: This poem has been significantly revised, with suggestions and guidance from Cindy and the PoetryEtc poets. It has reminded me what I mean to be doing here. I will write more about this later.

For those interested in the revision process, I’ll post a few versions below the cut.

Several Versions Later

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.

Original Version

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.

  

[This poem is for Timothy Kittleson, on his birthday. It’s not about Tim, but it’s for him.]