How You Hurt Your
You say an old injury has resurfaced
to haunt you; it hurts to flex your leg.
So, you have been out of touch.
Understand: if it were my leg
I would have obtained crutches,
hopped, strapped it tight and taken drugs
with side-effects, somehow got in touch. It hurts,
but I know how to bend stubborn things,
can force my limbs beyond past wounds.
Some breaks heal poorly, knit into crooked bone;
you want to be seen whole and sturdy as an oak
as though someone once fled your damaged limbs.
It costs you to admit to this bad leg.
In my dream you are resting on a gnarled stump
beside the path; you rise, begin to limp forward.
If you've any comments about this
poem, Anna Evans
would be pleased to hear from you.