he comes home late
again, says
they need some time
apart. She twists her dishrag
deeper, and their last
wedding tumbler
snaps. Glass digs into
flesh, and fire
tears along her knuckle bone, bares
nerve and tendon to the stinging air.
She wraps it tight
in dishtowels and hopes
it holds together
on its own. Only
when the bleeding doesn’t
slow will she allow
it to be numbed,
the passage
of a dark and heavy thread.
At night, her husband
takes her hand, unwinds
the bandages and lays
the joint splint aside.
What’s left
is pain and stitches
pulling like their promise, taut
against the separation, drawing
ragged edges
side to side
to heal the best they can.
Permission to reprint granted to the American Society of Anesthesiologists, Inc., and Wolters Kluwer Health, Inc., by copyright author/owner.
2016
