If you search for “poems about broken arms”
you’ll find the words of amateurs,
mainly,
But who is a pro at this?
Are the missing plums from the icebox
A metaphor for the ligament
Pulling my bone until it snapped?
Snapped,
Forgive me.
Forgive me?
They were so
So
So
I’m going to ask you a lot of intrusive questions
And I’m so sorry
I just don’t want to black out
Or throw up in your car
She’s from Japan
He’s from Florida
There are more places to get outside
here in Nashville
than in Tokyo
You see?
And
They’d just run six miles
And it’s okay, it’s okay
If I don’t look I can still breathe
And who is this?
Who is this, they ask
As they wheel me to a room.
They don’t want to assume.
We’re friends. A friend.
I’ve too many lovers
If there is such a thing,
And some days not enough.
40 hours into not taking any pain pills
I move the grief group online
The only place I’m not broken
A lot of dead spouses lately
The “one”
Now gone
They talk about their empty beds
And I jostle about
Tossing pillows here and there
Propping my now less mangled hand
Above my heart
Doctor’s orders
And I feel the angles of my insides
Creak against my skin
Alone
Alone
Familiar hands wash my broken body
Tenderly, thoroughly
Before they have to go
Before they go back
To pouring themselves out
For another, for another
And who is your person
Except the one who drives you
To your colonoscopy
And promises you that
you won’t shit yourself
on the way
As if anyone can promise this
As if anyone can promise to love you
Until one of you dies
And the Target cashier proclaims
at the sight of my mangled arm
that hyper independence
is a trauma response,
as I stand beside someone
who is not my person.
Not now.
Not again.
And they can’t be.
Can’t be.
Be around for me after,
won’t be.
Not right away
not for a few days
and even then, not for long
But they want me to wait.
For their hands,
Their hands—
In not-so-many words—
They want me
to Wait
And
Hyper
in
dependence
is
a
trauma
response
“Forgive me
They were delicious
So sweet
And so cold”
kfw 2024
Undusted Corners 