by Greta Torelli
scar tissue
protrudes less
as do angles of deprivation
down a spine
now a backbone ready for snapping
this body of work
evidence of healing
hides fissions in my nerves
of disrupted childhood games
blue sirens in our driveway
while writing
recollections resurface
tears surface,
and I place palm to breast
a check- up
I am my own doctor, my own healer
I feel the running heart punch out,
don’t run, dear little heart,
fill my veins,
fill me with feeling,
so that I don’t cut them open
and check for poison inside
This piece was published in print as part of Lot’s Wife Edition 4.
