Temporary Separation

Margot Wizansky

I’m inside this body that doesn’t work
the way it did before, as if all my angles

were filed down. Fear of falling makes me
consider where I sit, where I step.

Love is pulling me up. Every day
the children call. A gift of sequined silk

and flowers from my brother. You drive me
everywhere, carry and lift. Nights are long,

streetlights shining in through the curtains,
in the drizzle, the neighborhood

turned nineteenth century romantic,
but the surgeon has separated us as though

I’m covered in Post Office labels:
Fragile, Special Handling. There’s a big scar

on my chest, and I’m afraid you might
bang into me with your elbows and knees.

I serve dinner by candlelight,
hoping it’s a temporary separation.