I.
After my fourth surgery,
you don’t kiss me
instead your workman’s hands
freckled with scabs,
a fistful of flowers,
knead in your lap.
II.
As ordered, I stand up,
unsure if my legs support my fears.
You say, “damn, you look
sexy in that hospital gown.”
For a few seconds,
I am walking across a runway
instead of over filthy linoleum tiles
in non-slip hospital socks
under the influence of morphine.
III.
When I try to sit down,
I get tangled up in
surgical draining tubes
self pity, fear scars will create
more distance between us.
IV.
You reach out to steady me,
the fingers above your knuckle,
spotted with the day-to-day,
open like an evening primrose,
spread like seeds tossed into wind.
V.
You say, you say, our love
will scab over instead of wilting.
